


Flipping The Script

by XFilesinAMajor



Category: Skipper Dan
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 107,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22695154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XFilesinAMajor/pseuds/XFilesinAMajor
Summary: This is barely counts as fan fiction, there's not really a fandom for a character from a SONG. And yet here it is. Something I wrote a few years back, which I'm posting now because I have writers block. Credit to "Skipper Dan," by Weird Al Yankovic.***Single mom Sharon has never been out west before, and she's not really a fan of Disneyland. But her kids want to go, her parents offer to help, and the writing is on the wall. She's not expecting a great time, and she's certainly not expecting romance--but then she meets Dan, former actor and current Adventureland employee, and after one spontaneous date she finders herself on a very different sort of ride than she bargained for. And despite heading back to her home state a few days later, it's a ride she can't seem to get off. It's the start of something big, and it's a lot scarier than any rollercoaster.





	1. Chapter 1

“That's an African Bull elephant. Your first clue is the size of the ears and tusks, but what reaaaaaally gives it away is the fact that we're in Africa.”

One of my sons laughed; the other was too interested in the animatronic jungle creatures to notice a word our tour guide said. I did that thing that's more than a smile, but isn't quite an audible laugh, either. The jokes were really lame, but the guy telling them managed to make the whole thing somewhat endearing. The fact that he had a sweet smile and wore his uniform well didn't hurt, but it was his tone of voice that really got me. He seemed to be having fun with the schtick, and it pulled everyone in.

I thought briefly about how I'd deliver hokey lines like that, but it didn't take me long to conclude that I lacked the charisma and patience. The ride only lasted ten minutes, so how many times a day would you have to do the exact same piece? These people must be superhuman. I looked at our guide with new admiration.

Eventually my children drew my attention back to them, and it would have been weird of me to not even glance at the scenery that made up the actual ride. But when it was over, and we had a chance to take a photo with our “skipper,” I took the time to ask him about it.

“Doesn't it get old, doing the same show over and over again all day?”

I'd said it conversationally, but he stared at me as though I'd uttered something shocking. “Are you real?”

I gave an apologetic little laugh. “I know...you probably get that question so often it's like a part of the show. Sorry.”

He was already shaking his head when I finished. “Actually no, hardly ever.”

“Oh!” That was surprising, but it put his odd statement in a different light. Maybe he thought I was nice, instead of a weirdo. “Well, does it?”

“Yes,” he said without enthusiasm, and the polite, boyish smile momentarily slipped from his face. “But it pays the bills.” He got the smile back in place quickly, but it that split-second I'd seen someone a lot different from the charming, laughing skipper.

“I would hope so,” I exclaimed, trying to convey how genuinely impressed I was. “You're really good. It's got to take a lot to be convincing every time.” Especially if he was actually completely sick of his job. I never would have guessed.

He was smiling as he thanked me, but I was starting to suspect that smile was, and never had been, real. I walked away from the ride with my kids, but I couldn't get him out of my head. When we reunited with my parents after lunch, I asked if they wanted to take the boys on a few rides by themselves. And then I went back to the Jungle Cruise.

After half an hour waiting in line I made it to a boat, only to find it had a different skipper. I pretended I had a phone call, waving people ahead of me until the boat was full. I wound up repeating that scene two more times, feigning increased irritation and feeling more and more ridiculous. But then the Congo Queen arrived, and I recognized him. Dan, I read on his shirt as I sat down near the front. He didn't so much as glance at me, and I doubted he remembered me from earlier.

I told myself I was totally creepy to waste my time like this. Stalking an Adventureland employee? Sad, Sharon. Sad.

And yet, here I was.

This time I pretended to watch the animals, but whenever I felt I could get away with it, I watched Dan instead. That same sweet smile, same long legs and dark hair, same jovial delivery of the lines. But the smile never _quite_ seemed to reach his eyes. And there were a few moments, when he must have thought everyone was looking elsewhere, that he let his face relax. When he did, he looked older—maybe he was about my age, after all. And he looked _tired_...no, more than tired. Miserable.

Then it would be time to make another lame joke, and he'd slip right back into character as if it had never happened.

I don't know exactly at what point I decided to do something stupid, but by the time the ride ended I had extracted a piece of paper and pen from my purse. While other tourists were taking pictures, I wrote down my first name and phone number in my clearest handwriting. Then I waited as if I wanted a photograph, too.

I almost chickened out several times, and my heart was pumping hard enough to make me feel sick. This was utterly stupid. Even _if_ he called me, what was going to come of it? I didn't even live on the west coast. And most likely I was just going to make a fool out of myself. Maybe he'd be grossed out. I didn't want to do this.

….but I really didn't feel like I could _not_ do it, either.

So when I was the next person in line, I walked right up, gave him my best smile, and started spewing words.

“I am nervous as hell right now and I don't want to sexually harass a Disney employee—I know you don't fuck with The Mouse, haha—but I'm in town three more days and I'd love to get to know you a little bit so. Uh.” I shoved the piece of paper toward him, blushing when he allowed me to put it into his hand. “If you're interested, I mean. It's okay if you're not. I'm going to run away now before embarrassing myself any more.”

I registered another look of surprise on his face as he realized what I was doing, but I didn't give him a chance to say anything before I turned tail. I didn't look back, either; there were still a few people waiting to get him in a picture. By the time I made it back to my family my heartbeat was starting to slow, and aside from a residual feeling of embarrassment and inexplicable longing, I was able to go about the rest of my day like normal.

*

I didn't really expect him to call. Of course, no one does in this day and age, but I didn't really expect him to _text_ , either. I'd almost managed to forget about my brief departure from sanity by the time I finished dinner with the family.

And yet, there it was, staring up at my from my phone screen. Unknown number. _Is this Sharon?_

_Yes,_ I wrote back with fingers that trembled from nerves, and waited.

The response wasn't immediate, but still pretty quick. _This is Dan from Adventureland. What did you have in mind?_

My mind immediately went into the gutter, but the reply I actually sent was more cautious. _Dinner, I suppose? I hear that's what people do._

After thinking a moment, I sent an addition: _On me, of course. Though I have no idea what's good around here._

_Oh, are you some rich divorcee or something?_

_Nope, middle-class widow who didn't even bring a dress on vacation. So bear that in mind when you make your recommendations._

_Got it._

_I was surprised you decided to write. You must have much better offers._

_Not really. I was surprised you asked._

_Come on, there must be tons of single moms trying to get with the cute skipper._

_Shoot me, please._

_Not exactly what I had in mind for a first date, sorry. I'm not big into being tried for murder. I've got kids, man._

_Oh right. How old?_

_Six and ten, two boys. You?_

_None that I know of._

_Ha. But you like them?_

_Depends on the kid._

_Good enough for me._

_So when are we talking here?_

_Tomorrow? What's your schedule like?_

_Eight hours of faking it on a boat. Then nothing after six._

_I can't wait to hear more about how you love your job._

And the texting continued. Constantly for the next twenty minutes, at which time I had to put the boys to bed, and sporadically after that until past midnight. By the time I finally made myself stop, we had specific plans set for the following night, and I was beyond excited for it. When I'd given him my number, I'd been taking a chance on something based mostly on looks and a few brief interactions. Now I thought I was getting a feel for the man, and I was enjoying it tremendously. His sense of humor was there, but it was a lot darker than the scripted jokes he'd been telling on the boat earlier this afternoon.

* 

After my initial pleasure at having him come to see me in person, I was starting to have second thoughts. We'd met at a packed little burger joint that smelled amazing, and gotten a seat in a booth near the back. He'd given me a lifeless smile, ordered a drink, and said little. I wanted to get past that exterior and find the guy who'd texted me half the night, but so far no dice. At this point I'd even have settled for the Skipper Dan version, despite it being an act. I gave up on both asking him about his background (Oregon...yeah, it's wet...nope...ten years...) and my bright, perky attempts at sharing facts about myself.

I tried a different approach. “Rough day in Adventureland?”

The effect was immediate. He shut his eyes, and his face collapsed into dejection and sorrow. The unhappiness was so transparent that it hurt my heart to watch him. Tentatively, I reached across the table and touched his arm. “Would it help to talk about it?”

He shook his head without opening his eyes. “That'd just be like reliving it _again_. Besides, all the days kind of blend together. I don't know if I'd be telling you about today or yesterday or tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” I murmured sympathetically. “Creeps into this petty place from day to day.”

His eyes opened up. “You know Macbeth?”

“Well, I majored in English and minored in Theater, so yeah.”

He made a grand gesture with his hand to indicate everything around us. “And did you _dream of Hollywood_ , too?”

I considered that, ignoring the patronizing, almost angry tone of his voice. “Briefly, I guess. What teenager doesn't? But I was never great. Starred in a few high school productions, had a lot of fun building sets, took some supporting parts in my little liberal arts college. That's it. Besides, I hate big cities and like having privacy. I was never A-list material.”

A little furrow appeared in his brow as he studied me. That was clearly not the response he'd been expecting. I smiled at him, a little sadly. “I think you've been in LA too long. You're looking at me as I've just said something strange.”

He gave his head a little shake. “Everything you say is strange. What _do_ you want, then?”

I shrugged. “To read, and write. To bake, and take long walks in nature. To play with my kids and make crass jokes and live somewhere with hot showers and soft beds. To be able to buy things for—and spend time with—the people I love. I'm not too complicated, really.”

“Okay...and where does asking out loser tour guides tie into that?”

I narrowed my eyes, giving him what I hoped was a stern look. “Wouldn't know. Never done it. I asked out a cute guy I met at Disneyland because he seemed interesting.” I paused, and handed over a little more truth. “I don't really expect this to go anywhere, you know. I figured you must be taken or something, and it's hard to get to know someone well when you're only in town a few days. But I couldn't seem to stop myself.”

For just a minute, he smiled at me. He _glowed_ from the inside. It was like watching a fire start to kindle, and then get blown out by an ill-timed gust of wind. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “You said you're a widow. When did that happen?”

I blinked a few times, processing the sudden switch. “Four years ago. It was a car crash.”

“I'm sorry.”

I gave a wan smile. “Thanks. It seems like a lifetime ago, though.”

“What'd he do?”

“Assistant DA. I think he'd have wound up in politics if he'd lived, though; he loved reading about them and could charm almost anybody.” I smiled fondly. “Not that he was perfect. No one is. Anyway, he had a good life insurance policy, so we're pretty comfortable. In the midwest, that is. I doubt we could afford a one-bedroom apartment out _here_.”

Dan laughed very dryly. “Probably not.”

Silence fell. We both sipped at our drinks, and I thought about what everything he'd just said—or rather, _not_ said. “What do _you_ want?” I asked him.

He stared blankly into his drink, and for a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then said, hollowly, “Nothing. Not anymore.”

I stood up, walked around to his side of the table, sat back down, and gave him a sideways hug. Surprisingly, he leaned into it, resting his head on my shoulder. I tightened my arms just a little, and felt him relax. Neither of us spoke for a minute. I had no clue what to say, which was why I'd acted instead. And he didn't seem to want to talk. I shifted slightly toward him, but left my arms around him. I could feel him breathing.

Finally he sat back. “No one does that out here.”

This time _my_ brow furrowed. “No one hugs out here? Dude, why do you even _live_ in LA? It sounds horrible.”

He shrugged as if he didn't care, though the fact that he'd clearly needed a hug rather desperately betrayed the lie of that. Almost as if he sensed that he'd given himself a way, he scooted a few inches further from me in the booth and took another defiant sip of his drink. I stayed put.

“So,” I asked conversationally, “What's your favorite Shakespeare play?” He clearly knew his Bard, and it wasn't often I got a chance to have that sort of intellectual discussion.

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously, as if it was some sort of trick question. “You first.”

“Twelfth Night, I think. At least, of the comedies. Though I saw it as a groundling at The Globe, so that might have colored my opinion. I like Much Ado a lot, too. I think of the tragedies, I like King Lear. I always wished I could play Regan. Yeah she was despicable, but that's kind of fun. And if Lear hadn't so obviously played favorites, maybe she would have grown up differently, you know?”

This answer seemed to alleviate his suspicion. He sat back in a more relaxed manner. “Maybe. It's good to get into the psychology of the character. If you're going to play her, you have to be on her side.”

I nodded. “I had a drama teacher who told me a story once. A reporter asked a guy who had a bit part in _Streetcar—_ he played the psychiatrist at the very end—what the movie was about. And he said that it's about a guy who comes to rescue an emotionally scarred woman and take her someplace safe. And for his character, that's what the story _was_. I thought that was brilliant.”

“Exactly!” Dan nodded enthusiastically. “If you don't become them, how can you convince the audience?”

I grinned. “So go on. What's _your_ favorite?”

He did, too. “I know it's the easy answer, but I like Hamlet.”

“Ah, poor Hamlet.” I continued to grin as I talked. I was amusing myself. “He was just a poor college kid who comes home for break and has his life go off the rails. 'Hey, your dad's dead. No, you can't go back to school. By the way, here's your new daddy, Uncle Claudius! Oh, you're seeing ghosts now? A mission from your father to avenge him with murder? Nice. Whoops, killed an innocent man? Betrayed by your college buddies? Girlfriend went crazy because you were too into the vengeance thing and fucked up her life? That's a bummer.' I mean, shit! Poor guy. I wish I could write a play about what his life would have been life if he'd never come back to Denmark. Just him hanging out with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, studying, going on to marry some nice girl and get a real career. I guess that wouldn't go down as an immortal classic though, eh?”

I was watching him as I spoke, enjoying the flickers of humor that flirted with his features as I went on my goofy rant. I expected him to say something similarly funny.

“I played Hamlet in college.”

My eyes nearly popped. “You played _Hamlet_?” Dan nodded. “The actual _lead_ role?” Another nod. “At the _college level_?” He nodded again, and this time the edges of his mouth were pulling back in something that might grow into a smile. I was truly awed by this revelation, and spent several seconds with my jaw just hanging open, trying to find a way to articulate my feelings. “That...” A few more seconds passed as I searched for words. “That is amazing. That's _amazing_. I am so turned on right now.”

He rolled his eyes as if I might be joking. He was not allowed to think that. “No, seriously.” I dared to trail one finger lightly over his forearm, because it seemed a lot classier than dry humping him in a restaurant, and I needed to somehow convey just how serious I was. He didn't pull away and shifted slightly in his seat, so I must have succeeded on some level. “I don't want to go all stupid fangirl, but I would also be totally down with going back to your apartment right now.” I smiled as I said it, trying to lighten the mood. I wanted him to know I was serious, but not desperate. That I wasn't going to try to kiss him or start stalking him—not anymore than I already had, anyway. Time for a change of subject.

“So where did you go to college?”

He was regarding me with interest now. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but at least he was engaged. “Julliard.”

I felt my jaw drop again, and felt like an idiot. But I mean... “Really?” He nodded, looking inexplicably embarrassed. “Wait, wait, you went to _Julliard_? You're a _real actor_!”

He managed to laugh without any humor at all. “Yeah, a real actor. On the Jungle Cruise ride.”

Abruptly, it clicked. I closed the inches between us again, and rested my hand gently on his knee. “So what went wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said heavily. “Nothing happened.” He put his own hand on top of mine. His skin was warm and dry, and I liked it far too much. “Nothing went wrong. I did everything _right_! I studied hard. I _worked_ hard. I know I was good. I got great reviews in all the small-time shows I did. I made connections and paid my dues and got my headshots and then...nothing.” He stared glumly at the air in front of us.

I gave his knee a sympathetic squeeze. “Not even any auditions?”

Still staring at something I couldn't see, he shook his head. “I went to any open ones I heard about. Just wasn't what they were looking for.”

“Oh, Dan,” I said softly. Hearing that even vicariously was like a punch in the gut; I felt ill. For him to have actually lived it must have been excruciating. The ugly self-doubt it must have bred! The resentment and slow resignation. “Are you even trying still?”

He didn't say anything, which was its own answer.

I kissed his cheek, and he turned his blank gaze on me. “That's bullshit,” I told him directly. “It's not fair and it's stupid and wrong. But Hollywood's not known for being kind. They're known for being assholes, really. So nothing happening doesn't mean you're not every bit as good as you thought. It just means no one with the brains and authority to use you properly has found you yet.”

“And at this rate, they're never going to.” He might have sounded angry or frustrated, saying words like that. Instead, he just sounded tired.

“And because they're idiots, you should stop doing what you love?” I demanded. “Jeez, even if you don't actively chase the dream, indulge yourself a little in the evenings. Don't give up completely!”

He gave me his Skipper Dan smile, the one that didn't reach his eyes. “What exactly do you suggest? Acting classes? Home movies? Community theater?”

I ignored the sarcasm. “It's better than nothing, isn't it?”

He was already shaking his head. “I'm thirty-five and I work on the Jungle Cruise ride. If I was going to be anything better than that, I'd already be it. It's boring...and degrading...and annoying...” He sighed. “But it could be worse, I guess, right? It's still acting, kind of.”

Something inside of me ached for him. It was so _tangible_ , what he was feeling. I wanted to make it go away and see how he could be without that wrong turn in life. Like Hamlet. I hardly knew him, and I just wanted to hold him and make it all better.

“I think you do more acting every day on that stupid boat than half the people topping the box office do in their entire lives.”

He lifted an eyebrow skeptically. “What do _you_ know about it? You've never even seen me act.”

“I watched you laugh at those lame jokes two times in a row yesterday. If that's not talent, I don't know what is.”

“Thanks.” He gave me a weak half-smile. “But I meant on the stage. In a real role.”

“No, but I'd like to.” I revised that. “I'd love to.”

The smile did its disappearing act again. I wanted to caress the shadows under his eyes and hold him all night, when he looked like this. When he smiled, or talked about doing Shakespeare, I wanted to throw myself at him and lose all my clothes in a hurry. The two seemed rather incongruous.

He was shaking his head again. “What do you care, anyway? It's not your problem. I don't know why I'm even talking about it.”

“Because I _asked_!” I exclaimed. “And I mean it. You might have had your dreams crushed, but I'm still starstruck here. It's the first time I've had dinner with a Julliard-trained actor. I'm dying to get you out of here and read through some scenes with you. Or just sit back and watch. I'm serious. Fuck dinner. Do you have an apartment? Let's get out of here.”

Dan glanced down at the beverages on the table. “Are you drunk?”

I rolled my eyes. “I am not drunk. I am asking you to take me someplace private and ravish me with Shakespeare, Ibsen, and Miller.”

That actually won me a grin. “That sounds like one hell of a gangbang.”

I returned the smile. “It does, doesn't it. So what do you say?”

He thought it over. I could actually see him doing it. “Please?” I added hopefully.

“Yeah, okay.” He bumped his hip into the side of mine, the universal language for _scoot over so I can get up_. “Fuck this place. They didn't come back to take our orders yet anyway.”

“Have a little sympathy,” I joked as I pulled some bills out of my purse. “They're probably all aspiring actors.”

“Why should I? Bet they don't have any for me. Let's go.”

We walked about a block in what I considered thoughtful silence. For my part, I was thinking about Dan's eyes, and the sharp line of his nose, and how much taller he was than me (a fact more obvious to me now that we were walking side by side), not to mention what sort of scripts he might have lying around his apartment, and what it might be like there. I was also worrying that I'd completely embarrass myself if I tried to read a scene with him—he was pretty much a professional, whatever _he_ thought, and I had two years of bit parts at Alma College.

I'd assumed he was thinking along similar, though obviously not identical, lines. I didn't realize he had anything else on his mind until I followed him around a corner and he grabbed me. I barely had time to register what was happening as he gripped my shoulders, pushed me backward into a brick wall, and put his mouth on mine.

I was frozen in surprise for the first second, but after that I warmed up and went with it. Kissing him was like being caught in a riptide and dragged out to sea. His hands lifted me upward as well as into the wall, so that I was standing on my tiptoes and had nowhere to go, no choice but to surrender. He kissed hard, with a sense of urgency so great I thought we might wind up ripping off clothes right there. My knees trembled in a show of weakness, but when he finally released his grip long enough for me to get my heels back on the ground, it was only so that he could shove his hand up under my shirt.

I gasped against his lips, and moved the arm that he'd freed around his lower back, pulling him tight against me. I wasn't thinking about what I was doing. I wasn't thinking at all. I was riding the tide. I was drowning.

“I'm going to take you back to my apartment,” he growled into my ear, pausing to bite into a corner of my neck. I moaned as I felt him sucking the blood to the surface. Jesus Christ, I hadn't had a hickey in twenty years.

“I'll take you back there,” Dan repeated himself, still with his hand cupping my breast under my shirt, “and I'm going to fuck you until you scream my name. I'm going to keep going until you forget yours.” He kissed me again, this time biting into my lip. “I am going to keep you on your knees until the crack of dawn, and you're going to beg for me not to stop.”

I was shaking—not just trembling, no, I had crossed the threshold into something closer to convulsions. It was hard to draw breath. “I--” I panted hopelessly. “You—you--”

He grinned, and his teeth flashed white in the dim lighting. It really was some sort of alley we were in. “You're going to let me,” he told me with utter conviction. “We've had this date with each other from the beginning.”

Under the overwhelming sense of desire, I felt a smile emerge to quirk my mouth. “Did... did you just quote _Streetcar_ to me?”

“All the best pick-up lines have already been written,” he whispered, and went back to kissing me.

“Dan,” I murmured helplessly, when his mouth was not seducing every good intention I'd ever had out of me. My hands were riding the top of his jeans, as if they could pull him close enough to do him right through the layers of clothing. With great force of will, I pulled my palms up to his chest instead, in an effort to hold him at bay. He didn't stop, but moved back to my neck and made a small grunt of acknowledgment. “Dan!” I repeated with a bit more confidence. He repeated the grunt. This time it was easily interpretable as _I'm listening but I'm not stopping_. I fought to get my breathing under control. “Two things,” I managed to gasp, at length.

He slid his hand down the front of my pants, and I lost my train of thought.

When I finally got myself back under anything resembling control, it was to weakly protest “We're in public! We'll be arrested.”

He laughed softly into my ear. “This is LA. No one cares.”

“How are you going to follow through on your promise to do all those things in your apartment if we never leave this alley?”

“I know. I've been thinking about that problem myself.”

“And?”

“I'll just do it right here instead.”

He kissed me urgently again following those words, enough to make me wonder if he actually meant it. My hands were above me, both buried in his short hair, when we came back up for air. “You are the sexiest man alive,” I told him, meaning every syllable. More kissing interrupted my words. “But I'm not a horny teenager.” I rolled my hips against his crotch in a direct contradiction to that. “I'm a grown woman.” I broke away from his mouth to run my lips over the smooth underside of his throat, deciding whether I wanted to kiss or bite. “I'd enjoy this even more with lots of space—oh God oh God--” He was making it so hard to speak! “--and a shower for the inev-inev-ohhhhhh....inevitable clean-up. And I still want to hear you read.” He made a low growl of desire deep in his throat, and bit into my lower lip.

“I've got good news, then,” he said when he let go.

“Oh?” It was the best response I could manage.

“I live here.”

“You live in an alley?”

We both laughed, the crazy sort of laugh you get from too much adrenaline.

“This way.” He stepped away from me to lead the way back out of the alley, and I immediately felt bereft. My body craved physical contact now, and it took all my willpower to follow him around the front of the building and through what must be the main door without throwing myself at him. We made it up a whole flight of stairs before I caught his arm; that was all the encouragement he needed to turn around and pin me to the wall again. After another minute of groping each other like sex-starved idiots, we made it up two more flights and stopped in front of an unassuming door. Dan fumbled for some keys in his pocket while I fumbled with the button on his jeans. I got it undone while he was unlocking the door, and he slammed it shut behind us while pushing me back into the nearest wall.

“You have a thing for pinning me, don't you,” I observed before his lips met mine. I didn't care in the slightest; I found the way he was pressing against me from the front, with no escape or flexibility behind me, to be almost painfully erotic. Instead of trapping my shoulders this time, he held my head in place with one large hand, sneaking the other between my butt and the wall to lift me. I fought against a moan and lost the battle, but succeeded in using my free hands get his pants totally unzipped and shoved down to the tops of his thighs. I managed to get my own undone, too, so that there just two thin layers of underwear separating us where it counted.

I could feel the heat and the shape of him, knew how hard he was, sensed every twitch of enthusiasm. I groaned again and pushed my hips forward harder, as if I could make the fabric disappear through sheer willpower. He pushed me further up the wall, and I wrapped my legs around him as I struggled to pull my shirt off my head. As soon as I'd dropped it on the floor, I wrapped my arms around him, too. He unclipped my bra, and I let that fall on the ground, too—but when he tried to move his hands to my bare skin, there wasn't enough force holding me against the wall. I started to slip down, and had to take my legs back so that I had something to stand on.

“You were right,” he told me brusquely. “Beds are nice. Come on.”

I followed close on his heels through an apartment lit only by the city lights seeping in from the windows. Luckily, it wasn't a large place, and I tumbled onto a mattress after only a few seconds. I ripped my pants and underwear off as soon as my back hit the bed, and heard a soft sound that could only be Dan stepping out of the rest of his clothes. Sure enough, when he lowered himself down over me, all I could feel was heat and skin, everywhere. I turned my face up toward him, and reached a hand up to guide his mouth back down to meet mine. This time his hands found my breasts with no complications, and I arched into them as he squeezed experimentally. “Harder,” I breathed, and he listened. I shuddered, and he rubbed his thumb over one of my nipples. “Oh God,” I panted, writhing under him. “Oh _God_.”

“Dan,” he reminded me, and there was humor mixed with desire in his roughened voice. “Told you I'd make you scream it.”

I was shaking, I needed it so badly, but managed to make myself nod. “Dan,” I repeated in a pant. “Dan, Dan, _Dan—_!” The last one crescendoed and became incoherent as he pushed into me, but he got the idea.

I came almost immediately, because of the intensity of the build-up, but he didn't stop and the sensation rolled over on itself and started building all over again. I very nearly did scream, during the times I found that I could make sound. Other times it felt like all the air had been sucked out of me, and all I could do was silently mouth his name. He'd go at it hard, then back off a little as we kissed or he used his mouth on a different part of me, then speed up again. He must have been getting off on how crazy he was making me, as much as the sensations themselves. But there was no doubt he was enjoying himself. He made almost as much sound as I did, which served only to make me that much hotter.

By the time he came, I was a sweaty, breathless mess spiraling into my third orgasm. I clung to him as the aftershocks shook both of us, and kissed him slowly as my body began to relax.

*

“When did you decide...”

“To sleep with you?” He plucked a loose strand of hair off my face, tucking it back behind my ear. “Oh, I always intended to.”

“Really?” I was incredulous. “You didn't come on that strong at the restaurant.”

“Your hair is gorgeous, you know that? I bet it's your natural color, too, isn't it.” I nodded, and he ran his fingers back through it again. “It's like touching silk.”

“You're dodging the question,” I smiled.

One of his shoulders lifted in a half-shrug. “Well, I was being myself. Most of the women I...”

“Wait, _most_? And here I thought I was special.”

“You are. Let me finish.” I dropped the fake pout and rested my head back down on the bed where I lay on my side, staring at him. We had gotten up to turn on the light and grab a few tissues, but nothing more. “Yeah, I get some MILF on a tour every now and then who takes it into her head to give me a tip with her phone number included. And sometimes I follow up on it and she gives me a hotel room number and we have a good time. Give me a break, I'm not going to turn down a chance to feel good about myself for half an hour if I get a chance.”

I nodded. My pride was a little wounded, but I understood, and I couldn't blame him. I was also waiting for a “but.”

“But,” he obliged, “they all have these perfect prissy outfits and entitled airs about them. They're never surprised to hear from me. And they all so obviously don't really want me. They want the skipper. As good as it feels, and as hot as some of them are, it's exhausting just being that guy for long enough to get laid. They don't ask me if I ever get bored at work. They don't offer dinner and give me hugs and try to talk about Shakespeare. But you...you don't want Skipper Dan, do you.”

“Just the real thing,” I whispered, and leaned forward to kiss him gently.

He wrapped his arms around my bare shoulders and pulled me deeper into the kiss. I squirmed closer and lost myself for a minute. The desperate hunger was gone for now, and he kissed like a wet dream: urgent, hot, moist, but so soft. The feelings it gave me recalled his earlier words to mind, and I found myself smiling. “So you don't usually push them up against alley walls and threaten to fuck them until they're nothing but a dripping mess?” I inquired playfully.

Dan closed his eyes. “Not so much. It's a lot less empowering and a lot more like prostitution.”

“I thought you said it made you feel _good_ about yourself!” I protested.

“I said I take what I can get!” he retorted.

“You poor thing,” I cooed, stroking his hair and letting my hand drift down his cheek and neck to rest over his heart. “So am I good for your ego?”

“I don't _have_ an ego. I'm a dreamless, worthless automaton.”

“You sounded pretty confident when you told me earlier I'd be begging you not to stop.” I paused to trail my fingers in the little dark curls of hair on his chest. “That's the other thing I don't get. Why didn't you just wait till you got me back here to jump me?”

He shrugged. “Poor impulse control?”

I brought my eyes up from his chest to meet his eyes. “That is a terrible answer.”

He rolled over onto his back. I rolled with him, reluctant to remove my fingers from their new little playground. I loved chest hair, and he had just the right amount. Not some stupid weak little trail, but not Robin Williams, either. Crap. Desire was building back up in me already. We'd been resting all of five minutes!

“You really have no clue that you're beautiful, do you? You probably think all those made-over soccer moms in tight pants were more desirable that you, right?” I couldn't deny it, and kept my eyes firmly on his chest. “You have no fucking clue, and that's what makes you so hot. You were walking along, because you'd asked me to take you to my home, like that was no big deal, and you'd admitted you wanted me but not pushed the issue, and I could just _tell_ you were walking along thinking about _me_. I wanted you right then. I _wanted_ something, wanted it bad. I wasn't going to waste that.”

I just lay there for a while, watching him and feeling his heart beat under my hand. I didn't dare speak, because I could feel a lump of emotion in clogging my throat. “That is the sweetest, most romantic thing anyone has said to me in a very, very long time,” I managed at last.

“Careful now. I don't want you thinking I'm actually _nice_. Do I need to slam you up against the wall and make you scream again?”

“I was hoping you would.” I smiled deviously. “But you _are_ nice. And don't think you're off the hook, you know.”

“Off the hook?”

“You promised you'd let me completely embarrass myself by reading a scene with a Julliard-trained actor.” I snuggled closer to him. “You didn't think I'd forget, did you?”

He sighed. “I'd hoped.”

I sat up, looking down at him in dismay. “You don't mean that?”

“Why do you care so much?” He sounded sullen.

“Well, two reasons.” I stayed propped up on one arm, but resumed trailing my fingers over his chest. “First, as much as I want to go for round two, realistically I figure we could use some recharge time. I guess we could order a pizza, but I like theater so I think that'd be a fun way to spend it.”

I stopped talking, which forced him to look up at me. “And the second reason?”

I swallowed on that annoying little blob of emotion still hanging around my throat. “I like you,” I said simply. “I don't do _just_ sex, sorry. I like you and I want to see you do something you're g...” I paused, went back, and corrected myself. “Something _else_ you're good at. Especially since I think it might make you happy.”

“You don't know me. How do you know what'll make me happy?” He continued sulking.

“Oh, stop,” I scolded him. “You're just scared. Anyway, how did _you_ know I wasn't going to scream sexual assault or knee you in the crotch a little while ago?”

Dan sighed heavily, but this time it had a taste of drama to it “Fine, fine, but only as a distraction. I also promised I'd keep you on your knees until dawn, didn't I?”

Another little surge of lust swept through me. “I haven't spent _any_ time on my knees yet. We're really going to have to fix that once you've recharged.”

“Once _you're_ recharged, you mean. I can go all night. I only stopped out of consideration.”

I giggled. Had that actually been a _joke_? “Biologically, that sounds very unlikely.”

“If you scream my name like that again, I'm pretty sure I can defy biology.”

“I'm not sure I believe you.” I leaned down to give a long, slow kiss. It accelerated.

We were already naked. He gave me a light push on the shoulder, and I lay back down. “I'm willing to try, though,” I acquiesced.

He was shaking his head, and fresh desire had turned his face into something almost frightening in its intensity. “Keep turning.”

I obligingly rolled over onto my stomach. “You know, when you said 'on your knees,' I thought you meant...”

“Oh!” He got my meaning before I'd even finished speaking. “Oh, well. There's plenty of time. All night, remember?”

“With breaks for drama,” I reminded him as crawled on top of me.

*

“Do Antony!” I exclaimed after my latest round of applause. I was stretched out across his bed, still naked, propped up on my elbows as I watched the show. It was absolutely the best seat the in the house.

Dan hadn't bothered to put on any clothes, either. I'd never seen Shakespeare in the nude before, and given how I had spent the last few hours getting to know every inch of him very well, the fact that he was naked should have been distracting. But his acting was so compelling, I hardly even noticed.

He'd started out with Edmund's bastard speech from King Lear. He'd still been lying down then, with his hands crossed behind his head, and started reciting it from memory. But a few lines into it his arms had unfolded themselves and he'd sat up, looking at me and gesturing as if this was actually a conversation. I was in bed beside Edmund and he was telling me, personally, how unfair it was that being born on the wrong side of the sheets had so profoundly affected his lot in life. I found myself nodding in agreement, which was impressive because Edmund was the main villain of the play.

“Wow,” was all I could say when he finished. I tried to find words, and couldn't. “Wow,” I repeated, and then Dan was back. He grinned at me, temporarily forgetting that he should be on a real stage with a standing ovation, and simply pleased to have left one woman speechless. “You were incredible,” I managed after a minute.

“I know, but what do you think of my acting?” His eyes had lit up, and he almost looked like a different person with that smile.

I shook my head in wonder. “Your acting's better. And trust me, that's saying a lot.”

“So what do you want more of?” His grin had turned a little wicked. I shuddered pleasurably.

“Both. But!” I held up a finger. “I would kill for a drink of water, and I need to let my parents know not to wait up for me.”

“Your _parents_? What are you, twelve?”

I laughed. “If I was twelve, you'd be under arrest. My parents came out here with us, they're watching my boys tonight. I, uh…” I snorted in amusement as I remembered the lie I’d told. “I told them I was having drinks with an old friend from college.”

“Ah.” His smile quirked as he laughed at himself. “That makes a lot more sense.” He stood up. “I'll go get you a drink.”

I touched a hand to my heart. “A gentleman, too! Thanks, it'll only take a sec.” I slid out of bed and crawled around on the floor until I located my phone under my abandoned clothes. I pulled up a text to my mom and typed in _Having a nice time. Don't worry about me, and don't wait up. See you in the morning. XO_

They were probably all already asleep, I decided after glancing at the time displayed on my phone. But better late than never.

Dan came back in with two bottles of water. He sat down on the bed and passed one to me before downing half of his own bottle in one go. I followed suit, and he took another gulp. I twisted the lid back on, set it down, and crawled back onto the bed as he lay down again.

He was still smiling, and I couldn't help myself—I leaned in for another kiss. “That was amazing,” I murmured. “You are amazing.”

“Which thing are you talking about again?” he laughed.

“I don't know,” I admitted freely. “Both, I think. Do I get an encore?”

His hand came to rest in the curve of my side, and he slid it upward. “What sort of encore?”

I wriggled closer, and laced my arms behind his neck. “First one, then the other?”

“Mmm,” he agreed, deep in the back of his throat, and stroked his fingers down the length of my arm. Abruptly he grabbed it, painfully tight, and his face turned fierce. “Are you honest?”

“I...what?”

“Are you fair?”

“What?” I looked at him, puzzled, and he glared at me. “What are you talking about?”

“That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.”

Ah, now I knew what this was. But I didn't know the line! I shrugged and turned my hands upward helplessly to indicate as much. He gave no indication he'd understood, but he must have, because he resumed talking. “The power of beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness: this was sometime a paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once.”

I swallowed, hard. I _felt_ like Ophelia: completely taken a back, wounded, confused. I couldn't remember the exact line now, but I knew the gist. “I know you did,” I replied in a shaken whisper

“You should not have believed me,” Hamlet snapped, standing up and turning away from the bed. “For virtue cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.”

I winced. He sounded so hard, so cold. I bit my lip and shut my eyes, letting Ophelia's pain show through. “I was the more deceived.”

He spun back around, changing from icy cold to furious heat in an instant as he shouted in my face. “Get thee to a nunnery! Why woulst thou be a breeder of sinners?” I recoiled, backing away from him across the mattress. He calmed again, but anger still leeched out of his every pore as he seethed and ranted. “I am myself indifferent honest; but yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in. What should such fellows as I do crawling between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves, all. Believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery.”

And then, just as suddenly, he was Dan again. “There's more, but you don't know the lines. Not bad, though, considering you didn't have the script.”

I laughed shakily. “You made it pretty easy to get in character. Poor Ophelia.”

“Poor _Ophelia_? Not poor you?” He was grinning again, from ear-to-ear. “I really blindsided you there.”

“You did,” I agreed, smiling back. “And it was incredible. Let's do another one.”

So he got out his copy of _The Complete Works_ , and we scrounged up scenes. He outclassed me by a mile, but it didn't matter. He could draw me into the scene so quickly that all I had to do was react genuinely to what _he_ was doing, and my own acting was elevated. We exchanged banter as Beatrice and Benedick. We threatened each other as John and Abigail. We tentatively rediscovered each other's better natures as Linde and Krogstad.

And then I sat back and watched him on his own. He had to pull out some scripts for reference, but he gave me Henry, from A Lion in Winter; Blake, from Glengarry Glen Ross; and Marius, from Les Mis. He finished with John Proctor's final big speech in The Crucible, and nearly tore my heart out. “How may I live without my name?” he demanded with tears in his eyes, angst and dismay filling the whole room. “I have given you my soul, leave me my name!”

I was almost crying as I applauded. He was _wasted_ at the Jungle Cruise. I was as confused as he seemed to be about the fact that he was still working there. The world was not a fair place.

But it meant I got private showings, which was nice for me. I suggested Antony's speech, because I'd memorized it several decades ago and wanted to see it done well.

Dan stopped to have another long drink of water, wiped his mouth, and looked over at me. “You're insatiable.”

“You love it.” I stood up and crossed toward him. “It's three in the morning, and I'm not even tired.”

“Jesus Christ, is it really?”

I nodded, putting my palm lightly against his chest. “I cannot describe how much I've enjoyed this. I feel like I won the lottery tonight. I don't want it to end.”

He took my hand in his, and kissed the tips of each of my fingers. “This was probably better than sleep in terms of getting me through the rest of the week. Thanks.”

“Just don't pass out from lack of sleep and fall off the boat.” I stood on my tiptoes and tipped my head up, trying to get closer to his lips. “Think you've got enough energy for one more?”

“Antony's overdone.”

“I wasn't talking about Antony.” I kissed his neck, then his chest, then sank down onto my knees and kissed the inside of his thigh. It got an almost immediate response. I moved my lips a few inches inward, and his hands gripped either side of my head, fingers winding into my hair and yanking me forward. I gagged and felt a burst of arousal deep inside me at the same time. He controlled my head, and I used my tongue, and I could feel his hands and legs trembling. Then he pulled me off, and I made a high keening sound of disappointment. He pulled me to my feet and walked me backward toward the bed, spinning me around and shoving me face down into the covers.

I pulled myself forward and got my knees under me, which was all he was waiting for. I gasped in anticipation as he put his knees on either side of mine. I was already so wet, and we'd tread this ground so much already, that he slid in all the way with one thrust, and I pushed my face harder into the mattress to muffle a guttural moan. One of his hands was on the left side of my hips, holding me in place, but he moved the other one around to my face, slapping one large palm across my mouth and pulling my head up. I moaned again, harder, but the meat of his hand swallowed most of the sound. He held my mouth closed tightly, holding me almost completely immobile as he drove himself into me repeatedly.

The pressure mounted quickly, and I was so raw from our previous escapades that it was as much pain as pleasure. When he finally let go, bringing his hand down to my breast instead, an animal cry burst out of me. I wanted to buck and scream, kiss him all over, find some outlet for this unbearable level of bliss.

It must have gone on for ages. At some point he forgot his promise about keeping me on my knees, and rolled off to pin me on my back, instead. I came in waterfalls and fireworks, with his hands all over me and his name on my tongue, and when it was done I could do nothing but lay there.

I exhaled in satisfaction and exhaustion, and he sighed contentedly. I was enjoying his relaxed weight on top of me, but eventually it became too much and I gave a little wiggle. Obligingly, he rolled off, and I turned to nestle my head in his shoulder. It felt very intimate for someone I'd just met, but after a nightful of tearful monologues, real discussions, and mind-blowing sex I rather felt that intimacy had to be redefined. I listened sleepily to him breathing in and out, and debated the merits of getting up to grab a tissue for my thighs.

I was on the verge of falling asleep when a thought occurred to me. “Dan?”

“Hmm?” He sounded barely conscious, too.

“Why'd you stop me?”

“Stop you?” There was quiet as he processed the question and woke up enough to respond. “Oh, head?” I felt, rather than saw, his shrug. “I'm a pervert. I like having total control.”

“And hearing me say your name?” I teased.

“It sounds so good when you're barely coherent and still screaming it. I'm still power-tripping a little bit.”

I rolled my hips ever so slightly against him. “How did you get so _good_ at it?”

“Natural talent,” he replied smugly. “I could ask the same of you.”

“Practice plus enthusiasm.” I left my fingers drift through his chest hair again, and sighed happily. “It's a good thing you live so far away, you know. Otherwise my kids would never see me.”

“That would be sad for them.” His hand settled comfortably on my shoulder. “I'm sure you're a great mother.”

“Thank you,” I yawned. “It alright if I sleep for just a little bit?”

“Mmhm.”

“Good.”

I'm not sure which of us fell asleep first.

*

I did _not_ want to wake up when the alarm went off. I tried to ignore the incessant beeping, but Dan groaned and leaned over me to hit the button. I was hoping he'd hit the snooze alarm and pretended I was still oblivious so that I could slip back into sleep, but it was no good. I felt him withdraw his body heat, swing his legs over the edge of the bed, and sit up. A minute later the bed shifted as he stood up. I turned my head and opened my eyes to watch him. His hair was adorably mussed, and the strong line of his long legs, bare butt, and back made a nice picture.

I yawned and stretched. “Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

He yawned back, and stumbled out of the room. I heard running water in the bathroom. I would have loved a shower, too, but I thought that might be pushing it. Ignoring my pounding head, I plopped onto the floor and started yanking on items of clothing. I tried running my fingers through my hair, but it was a disaster. I checked my phone, and saw there were no new messages yet, and flopped back down as I smothered another yawn.

My eyes opened again when I heard footsteps, and I looked up to see Dan staring out the window as he brushed his teeth. I went to stand beside him, and saw the Hollywood sign from a distance. “Nice view.”

“I am so tired.”

“Me too.” I yawned again, proving my point, and rubbed a hand over my face wearily. “But it was totally worth it.”

“Yeah it was.” He turned toward me, and I briefly wrapped my arms around him. “Time to kick you out, though.”

“That's okay.” I tried to dredge a smile up out of my tiredness. “I knew it was coming.”

He walked back to the bathroom, and I heard him spit in the sink. Then he stood in the bedroom doorway and waited for me. “Coming?”

I followed him to the front door and then we stopped, awkwardly aware that we had to say goodbye but reluctant to do so. I smiled wistfully. “I don't even know your last name, Dan-from-Adventureland.”

“Douglas.” He smiled softly. “It's Dan Douglas.”

I cupped his cheek tenderly in my hand. “It's been a pleasure, Mr. Douglas. I'm Sharon Summers.”


	2. Chapter 2

_8/27/20_

_Hey! This is Sharon from last week. I'm back home but I was thinking of you today, so I thought I'd write and see how you're doing._

_Only you._

_?_

_Only you would write and check in on what was obviously a one-night-stand._

_Is that stage lingo for “stop creeping on me, weirdo?”_

_No, it's me being surprised to hear from you and then wondering why I was surprised._

_You really need to meet more nice people._

_You don't think I've tried?_

_Honestly? No._

_So what made you think of me?_

_*shrug* I don't go on dates much. I have sex even less. And I don't get to go to the theater at all. You were memorable._

_So were you._

_Aw, you're sweet!_

_No I'm not. Not a lot of women get turned on by depressive failed actors, trust me._

_How did you survive that day? The one after I last saw you._

_I don't really remember it tbh. I must have phoned it in worse than usual at work. Might have fallen asleep at the wheel a few times._

_Not really?!_

_It's not like I was on a freeway or anything._

_That's how my husband died._

_….well that's awkward. Fuck. Really?  
Yeah._

_Fuck. Sorry._

_It's okay. I'm good at putting my foot in my mouth, too._

_What was his name?_

_Marty. You don't have to ask about him, it's okay._

_Was he old?_

  1. _He'd actually be about the same age as you...didn't you say you were 35?_



_Jesus Christ. So that would have made you what, 30?_

_Ooh you do know how to flirt! I'm 37 now, so no. When's your birthday?_

_Dec 1. You don't look 37._

_No way mine's in December too! I hate it. And thanks :)_

_Why do you hate it?_

_Cold. Dark. Chaotic Christmas scheduling. You don't hate yours?_

_No, I do. Just not because it's in December._

_Ah. Well I guess winter's not so bad out there. Are you a sunshine person?_

_I'm from Oregon._

_Lol! So that's a no?_

_I like it in moderation._

_Okay what are you doing in LA again? I mean, I'm kidding, but yuck._

_There are days I ask myself the same thing._

_And?  
What would I do anywhere else?_

_Um, be happier?_

_Unlikely._

_Whoa, turn down the optimism there, mister._

_I don't care anymore. I'm just a zombie. A robot to match the stupid animals._

_Right, so that takes us back to the original question I wrote you with: how are you doing?_

_Pretty sure I just answered that._

_Okay I know I'm just the sweet one-night-stand, but I'm here if you want to talk about it._

_I'll say this: there was a lady today with a strong southern accent and a laugh like a whale being strangled._

_A whale being strangled? How would you even strangle a whale?_

_I don't know but that's exactly what she sounded like. I thought some real animal had gotten into the ride._

_Oh my god._

_I'll be having nightmares for weeks._

_I bet!_

_Now if you're going to keep texting, make it something NOT about my awful day. Please._

_You sure?_

_Holy shit yes I am so sure._

_Lol. Do you want to hear about MY boring day, then?_

_Why not. That sounds like a pleasant change._

_Well, I woke up at 5:30 in the morning so I could pack lunches and write notes for my kids._

_Write notes?_

_Yeah, I put little notes or pictures in their lunchboxes for them to read. It makes them feel special. I didn't really think I'd be doing it for four years when I started doing it for Xander, but here we are. And now Wesley's in school too..._

_Xander and Wesley, those are your kids?_

_Right. Xander's ten, he just started fourth grade. He likes dance and music, and he has tons of girlfriends. Wes just turned six and started kindergarten. He likes karate and drums and animals. They're both little towheads...well, Xan's not so little anymore, he's almost as tall as me. But they're both cute little blondes._

_They must get that from their dad._

_The cute part? Oh, thanks._

_Ha, ha. Don't fish, you're better than that._

_Sorry. Unintentional. Yeah, their dad was blondish._

_So you made them lunch?_

_Well, first I made coffee and took a shower. I forgot that part. I can't function until I have hot coffee and a hot shower._

_How many cups?_

_Just one, but it's strong. Not pee water._

_Pee...water?_

_That's what I call weak coffee. It's so light it looks like someone just peed in your mug._

_That's disgusting._

_So is weak coffee._

_Go on._

_Um...so after all that I dragged the kids out of bed and let them watch TV while eating breakfast and getting dressed. That gave me a chance to pull some real clothes on and check the news and facebook. Do you really want to hear all this? I'm kind of boring._

_This is way better than thinking about my day._

_If you're sure! I drove them to school, and we had to listen to Motorhead in the car because Xander's on another metal kick right now. Ugh._

_Not a fan?_

_I don't HATE it, exactly, but it's not the sort of music that does anything for me._

_Let me guess, 80s and 90s pop?_

_I take that as a personal insult. Guess again._

_Showtunes._

_Much better! Round of applause for Dan._

_Round of applause for Sharon, too. Much better taste._

_Thank you :D I also like 60s pop, a bit of Rat Pack, and the Beastie Boys._

_Eclectic._

_I like lyrics that make me laugh._

_That's cute._

_What do you listen to?_

_A mix of classic rock, R &B, and classical. BOC, Van Halen, The Kinks, Queen._

_I love Queen!_

_Then you have risen in my esteem._

_Awesome. Where were we?_

_I have no idea._

_Oh right, my kid's crappy taste in music. He's ten, I'll forgive it. Anyway, I dropped them off at school and went grocery shopping. Which I do like three times a week because something always gets left off the list, or we run out of fresh fruit and milk._

_Sounds riveting._

_I like grocery shopping, actually. It's about the ONLY kind of shopping I like. I know I'm weird, but I'd rather visit the dentist than go shoe- or clothes-shopping._

_I bet your husband appreciated that._

_I don't know. I just wear the same sneakers and cut-offs all summer as a result, so I'm either cheap or gross. But I find something I like and stick with it._

_I can't criticize. I find things I DON'T like and stick with them._

_Which is definitely worse, but thanks for not calling me gross._

_No problem._

_So I came home, put away groceries, watched Netflix while folding laundry, ate some cereal, and went out on a nice long walk._

_You're leaving out critical details here. What did you watch on Netflix? What kind of cereal? Where did you walk? You can't leave this stuff out if you're trying to bore me._

_I'm not trying to bore you, I just said I was boring. There's a difference._

_There is?_

_I can live a boring life but still make it entertaining to talk about. I don't know if I'm doing that well, but it's theoretically possible._

_Fair point. Well?_

_I rewatched an episode of Arrested Development because that show never gets old. I ate frosted flakes with 2% milk. And I walked an hour down a nature path near my house to the local lake, then turned around and headed back. Satisfied?_

_Was the milk organic? What brand?_

_Fuck you._

_Is that a real brand out there?_

_Ha ha ha :/_

_Actually...where IS out there?_

_Wait, I never told you where I live?_

_Nope._

_You know what I look like naked and you don't know I'm from Michigan? Not possible._

_It's true. I checked through I original text conversation._

_Did you check through that whole night in your bedroom, too? You must have just forgotten._

_I remember half my lines from plays I was in a decade ago. I don't forget._

_But Michigan is integral to my identity! I must have said!_

_Will it make you feel better if I say I just forgot?_

_Yes._

_Let me get this straight. You are refusing to accept that you slept with me without first telling me what state you are from. Flat-out refusing. Is that correct?_

_YES._

_You need help._

_You're refusing to accept the possibility that you forgot. So who's really the one with issues here?_

_Fine, fine. You're almost as fucked up as me. Happy?_

_Strangely, yes._

_Great. Why is Michigan so important to you?_

_Well, it's the only place I've ever lived. It shaped me. Have you ever been?_

_I have not._

_Well if you're thinking of Detroit, stop it. That's not my state._

_I wasn't. I was thinking, isn't that the state where everyone points to their hand to show you where they're from?_

_Yep, that's us._

_Bunch of freaks._

_Exactly! This is my identity. We also have snowy winters and hot summers and beautiful colors in fall. And the Great Lakes, and the UP._

_The up?_

_Upper Peninsula. Say yah to da UP eh? Pasties? Trolls?_

_Did you just have a stroke?_

_LMAO. Michigan is weird, that's my point. And beautiful._

_You're excited about being called a freak._

_I'm a Michigander._

_You're weird._

_:P_

_Sticking your tongue out at me in text form is not an answer._

_I wasn't aware “you're weird” required an answer. Am I distracting you from your day?_

_Actually yes._

_Then I will continue being a weird Michigander who sticks her tongue out in response to things. For another ten minutes, anyway. I really need to get the boys to bed._

_You haven't finished telling me about your day!_

_Do you really care?_

_Not really, but I don't like things left unfinished._

_Fine. I...went for a walk? Is that where we were?_

_I think so._

_Right. So that was about it for my me-time. Six hours goes fast. I picked up the kids, heard about their day, got them a snack, and took them to the park to play for a while. After that we had karate lessons, and when we got home I let them chill while I made dinner._

_Which was?_

_Spaghetti. It's one of the few things all three of us like. Some days I have to cook something special for Xander because he's a pain in the ass—but he's getting better. When he was little, he was as picky as they come._

_Wow, that sounds annoying._

_It was. But we lived through it. That was when I wrote you, by the way. While dinner was cooking._

_Fascinating. Tell me more._

_I can't tell if you're being sarcastic or not. Text is hard that way._

_“Fascinating” was, but the rest was serious._

_So you think it's boring but you want to hear more anyway? How desperate are you for entertainment? Do you not have a TV?_

_Nope. Netflix and DVDs on my laptop._

_Is it because you're cheap or is that just the cool thing to do in LA?_

_Cheap._

_Got it. Anyway, I need to go make the kids go to bed. At which point I will probably fall asleep, too. Wesley still wants me to lie down and read to him, and sometimes I pass out there._

_Alright. Thanks for taking the time to write. This has been..._

_Weird? Boring?_

_No. You're nice. Night, Sharon._

_Night, Dan. Write me any time, okay?_

_9/9/20_

_Have you ever watched Twelve Angry Men?_

_No, but of course I know of it. Twelve jurors fighting with each other over what verdict to give. Right?_

_Yeah. It's a classic. You should watch it._

_Is it on Netflix? Or do I need to order it from the library?_

_Library?_

_Where else would I get movies that aren't on Netflix and aren't recent releases?_

_Redbox? Hulu? Amazon?_

_But those are a pain in the ass, and the library is free!_

_….it's on Netflix._

_Cool, I'll put it in my queue._

_No, watch it tonight._

_Um...I have stuff to do. Why does it have to be tonight?_

_It just came on Netflix and I'm excited to watch it again. It'll be more fun if I have someone to discuss it with._

_You're excited for something?_

_It does happen sometimes._

_That's awesome. And you wanted to share it with ME?_

_Now you're making it sound weird._

_No, no, I'm just flattered. Can you wait an hour, so I can get the kids to bed first?_

_I guess so. Just don't fall asleep in there._

_I won't._

_Are you there?_

_Yes, sorry. It just took a little longer than I expected to get them tucked in._

_You fell asleep, didn't you._

_No! ….yes._

_At least you're here now._

_I'm just searching Netflix for it, hold on. All set! Tell me when to hit play so we can synch up properly._

_Hit it...now_

_Alright! I see a black and white courthouse. We on about the same page?_

_So far so good._

_Alright so...am I just watching it now and giving you my feedback at the end? Hold my comments?_

_Feel free to type your thoughts as you have them. As long as you're not missing anything._

_I can do that! Even my stupid random thoughts?_

_Genuine reactions, yes._

_Excellent. I like the gum guy._

_Do you now._

_Wow that guy's an asshole._

_You're making these decisions pretty quickly._

_I'm just giving you my impressions as I have them, not saying they're right. Why are they reading the newspaper!? Isn't that against the rules?_

_I don't know if that was a thing back when this was made._

_Juror #12 looks a little like you._

_Really? The advertising guy?_

_Yeah. He's got the sharp nose and the dark hair and he's kinda hot._

_I...guess so?_

_Holy shit I can see his nipples!_

_Who, #12?_

_No, the foreman. I know I can't criticize fashion but that shirt is the worst._

_Why can't you criticize fashion?_

_Because I wear the same clothes every week, remember? And most of those come from Target._

_At least you wear it better than the foreman, then?_

_Well yeah, he'd look terrible in my green V-neck. Lol let's all stare at Fonda_

_He's kind of asking for it._

_Who's side are you on here?_

_Maybe I'm siding with your friend the “gum guy.”_

_He just wants to get out of that room, he doesn't give a fuck. Ooh, now I want some rice pops._

_Only because you're drooling over #12. It's sad._

_Omg I hate that guy! His voice gets to me AND he's a puss._

_You are liking all the wrong people in this movie._

_Oh come on, that's what we're supposed to do at the start! Then we see their true motives or whatever as the play unfolds._

_He does have an unfortunate voice._

_Oooh good point Fonda! Ouch!_

_You're enjoying yourself, aren't you._

_Pass?! It's a guy's life, you voted guilty, then when they ask you to explain you PASS? Fuck you #5. Yes, totally enjoying myself :D Is it bothering you?_

_It's entertaining. I thought it would be._

_I'm gonna make a man out of you? Ughhhh you're an ass, too._

_Oh, she gets one right! #3 is the worst._

_His poor kid. I'd leave, too. Oh wait, now I see why #5 was quiet. That's awkward._

_See? You can't judge them all so quickly._

_I'm being an audience member. You're being someone who's seen it before and probably read the script. Omg foreman is a bitch lol_

_I love your intellectual commentary._

_SHUT UP PUSS!_

_..._

_Not you, the puss. #2._

_I know._

_GASP it's the same knife. Criminal!_

_You're funny._

_I'm priceless. You know what though? Can I just call you? Would that be weird?_

_So that I have no choice but to hear every thought that goes through your head?_

_Exactly._

_Yeah, sure, do it._

_9/11/20_

_This sounds so pathetic and needy that I hate myself for asking, but can you remind me that I'm not completely worthless? Nevermind, the fact that I just wrote that proves that I am._

_Shit, sorry I didn't see this sooner! You are NOT completely worthless. Or even remotely worthless._

_Thank you. I don't believe you, but thanks._

_Why would you be worthless? Come on. Even if you don't exactly have your dream job, you make people happy every day. You must have friends and parents who care about you. I think you're cool. That makes you worth something._

_I guess._

_You just need some perspective. If you view everything from the scope of where you SHOULD be—and I think you should be there too, for what it's worth—then of course living a regular life isn't worth much in comparison. But I don't have paparazzi following ME around everywhere, and I still have a fulfilling life._

_You never wanted paparazzi after you, though._

_Neither did you, really. It's one of those things that sounds impressive until you have to deal with it on a daily basis._

_And you know this how, exactly?_

_It's what I do. I drink and I know things._

_Oh, a Game of Thrones fan!_

_That doesn't exactly make me a rare find, but yes. You watched it, too?_

_I own all the box sets._

_No kidding! It's not too mainstream for you? Too much sex and violence?_

_You think I have a problem with sex and violence?_

_I...okay actually...lol I'm blushing now. No, I should have thought that one through._

_You're forgiven. Anyhow it was a good show, why shouldn't I like it?_

_I'm pleasantly surprised, is all. Who were your favorites, then?_

_Tyrion._

_Aw, that's the easy answer._

_Because it's the right answer._

_Okay who else?_

_The Hound. Danaerys, for a few seasons._

_You spelled her name right! I'm smitten._

_With Danaerys?_

_*eye roll* I mean those are all good choices, don't get me wrong. And Emilia Clarke IS hot. But I'm all in love with Jorah. Other favorites being Davos and Jaime._

_Those are weird choices and yet I can't argue with them._

_Damn right you can't. I'm like that, though. My favorites are never the main characters. It's the secondary people, the little guys, who capture my interest._

_That explains why you were so into Juror #12 the other night._

_He reminded me of the last man I slept with. That's different. Anyway, I've been thinking about that. Henry Fonda got top billing, but #8 wasn't really the best role, was it? I mean, he's the center piece of the whole thing, but I think #3 would be a way juicier part. You're the actor, though. You tell me._

_It's a matter of preference. But you're not wrong._

_Which would YOU rather play? Or have you? You've probably been in loads of stuff I don't even know about._

_Not unless you count high school, I haven't. Aside from one Shakespeare production and one written by a fellow student, all I have to my name are five credits from off-off-Broadway._

_And now I must know what they are._

_Edmund in Long Day's Journey into Night. Proctor in The Crucible. Louis in Angels in America. Brick from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Max in Bent._

_Damn, those are some good credits._

_I thought so :(_

_Oh, stop. I think you're amazing. Though I feel obligated to confess I only know two of them well. The other ones I'm looking up right now._

_That'd be Crucible and...probably Cat?_

_Right. Saw both in college. I'm reading up on Long Day's Journey now. I like O'Neill. I bet you were a great Edmund. That's, like...perfect._

_A nervous socialist with tuberculosis? That's what you see as the perfect role for me?_

_Well Wikipedia gives a physical description as well. You're tall with dark hair and big eyes, and you would have been almost exactly the right age. You just look for insults everywhere, don't you._

_It's how I entertain myself. So you'd never heard of Angels?_

_I'd HEARD of it, I just couldn't tell you what it was about off the top of my head._

_You never saw the HBO miniseries?_

_No...?_

_What have you been doing with your life?_

_Don't judge me I have kids!!!_

_Did you have kids in 2003? Because that's when it came out._

_In 2003 I'd just met my future husband and was busy being madly in love. Pretty much everything else went over my head. Not to mention we'd just moved into a crappy apartment together and didn't even have basic cable, let alone HBO._

_And your excuse for the sixteen years since then?_

_Um...I missed the memo?_

_I thought you said you studied theater._

_I did. Just not as well as you. I want to see it now, though. It sounds interesting. And sad._

_Also powerful and weird._

_Gotcha. Are you gonna watch it with me?_

_Maybe. Let me know when you find a copy._

_I will! Or maybe I should just have you send me a copy of your production of it._

_I only have one copy. Couldn't watch it at the same time as you if I did that. And I'm not risking it to the mail._

_Ah. Of course not. Alright so Bent sounds about as much fun to watch as having your heart ripped out through your throat. Dear God._

_Yeah, it's a good show._

_Good = brutal, devastating, and depressing?_

_Again, I thought you said you studied theater._

_Yeah, but modern theater is committed to being fucked up. Titus Andronicus was more fun._

_Subtle. You know Ian McKellen was in Bent._

_Sir Ian can do no wrong._

_I had the same role as him._

_….have I mentioned lately how attractive you are?_

_Not unless you count comparing me to Juror #12._

  1. _SEXY._



_I'm not convinced._

_I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to convince you when I'm half the country away. You'll just have to take my word for it. Talent is a turn on. How many girls were waiting around after the performances trying to jump you?_

_A few. A few guys, too. Max is gay, so people made assumptions._

_I can see why. I'm also seeing a bit of a pattern here. Brick, Louis, Max..._

_Are you asking if I'm gay?_

_That would be pretty stupid of me now, wouldn't it. It's just...three out of five, really?_

_That was theater in the 2000s. They were good roles._

_I also notice you don't do a lot of comedy._

_I guess I'm just not funny. Thanks for pointing that out._

_Now you're just messing with me._

_I'd need a sense of humor to do that._

_And you have one, which is why you're messing with me ;) Now are you going to tell me what's going on? Do you need me to distract you from your life again?_

_What's going on?_

_You write asking me to remind you that you're worth something. That sort of screams “bad day” to me._

_Every day is a bad day. You haven't grasped that yet?_

_Yes and no. Some still have to be worse than others. What happens that makes them that way?  
Sometimes nothing. It's all in my head._

_Then get out of your head! Do something that takes your mind off whatever's bothering you. Watch a movie. Go for a walk. Play a game._

_What sort of game?  
Any sort. Marty was into video games. My brother in law is a tabletop DM. Find someone who likes scrabble, I don't know. Poker?_

_No offense, but those are terrible suggestions_

_Well what DO you do with your free time, then?_

_Watch movies or stream shows. Read. Go for jogs. Sleep._

_That doesn't sound so bad! It sounds lonely, but then I live with kids who have never heard of privacy, so my perspective is probably a little skewed._

_You get time to yourself while they're at school._

_Yes, but that time goes by so quickly! If I had to go to a job every day on top of everything else, I think I'd die. In a filthy house, because I'd never have time to clean it. Anyway this is about you, not me. Just tell me what you want to talk about, and I'll go along with it._

_Tell me about you. Or are you going to tell me you don't have time for hobbies?_

_You already know about me! I like nature; not camping, necessarily, but nice long, quiet walks. I majored in English because I like to read and write, and I still do even if I don't use my degree. I enjoy movies and TV and theater, particularly for when I'm working out or folding laundry, but I do see more kids shows than anything. Some of them are even pretty good. I like spending time with my kids and parents. I like baking. I like animals._

_You sound too nice._

_I guess it does kind of sound that way. I'm not, really. I yell at my kids sometimes, and I bitch out over stupid things just like everyone else. My house isn't clean enough. I have no style. I think potty humor is hilarious. My singing is atrocious._

_Bad singing isn't a character flaw._

_It is when you're as bad as I am. When my kids were toddlers, my singing actually made them cry. And I guess it'd be okay if I just kept my mouth shut, but I sing anyway. If I really like a song, or I'm happy, or I'm drunk._

_I feel like I should hear this singing._

_No. I'd feel bad for making your ears bleed._

_Wow._

_Yep._

_So what do you read?_

_Sci-fi/fantasy, humor, historical fiction and mysteries. I've read A Song of Ice and Fire and some other series like that. Also Harry Potter, Hunger Games, Discworld, Hitchhiker's Guide...the cult series, you know. Neil Gaiman, Robin Hobb, Connie Willis. Agatha Christie, I love Agatha Christie._

_You read a lot._

_I do. But I know people who read more than me, too. What about you?_

_I like mysteries. I've read a few Agatha Christies, and the first few Game of Thrones books. The rest mean nothing to me, sorry._

_Hey, everyone has their own tastes._

_And you write, you said?_

_Are you really this determined not to think about your own life? I mean, I'm interested in hearing about it._

_What do you write?_

_I don't much, lately. Embarrassing fan fiction once in a while. I did a whole series of novels and short stories set in the same fictional town, though. Realistic fiction stuff, relationships and some murder. I'm still proud of it, but that was years and years ago._

_Actual novels?_

_Not PUBLISHED novels. But yeah, full 300+ page stories._

_Now that's incredible._

_Being long doesn't mean they're good._

_It doesn't mean they're not, either. It's more than I could do._

_Yes, but you do lots of incredible things I couldn't do._

_Like live in LA?_

_Hahahaha, YES. Seriously though, you are way more talented than me._

_It's not a competition._

_I know. I just...the fact that you're writing me means a lot._

_The fact that you think that baffles me._

_Well, keep it up. If you ever do make it big, you're my claim to fame._

_Ha._

_Then keep it up because I like talking to you. And we have to watch Angels in America together now. You promised._

_I did not. But we can._

_Thank you. And on that note, I need some sleep._

_Okay. Sleep well._

_I always do._

_9/12/20_

_My library doesn't HAVE Angels in America. My sense of faith in the world has been shattered._

_Your husband died in a car crash, you deal with children every day, you've watched Game of Thrones, and THIS is what breaks your spirit?_

_I exaggerate, so sue me. But it really does hurt. My library has never let me down before. It IS on DVD, right?_

_Yes, I own it._

_Wtf, library. I am so disappointed in you. They have a copy of the script, about 600 books it suggests on LBGTQ rights over the years...but no dvd._

_You really are shattered._

_It's my world view! Michigan and libraries and there's good in everybody._

_Even Hitler?_

_He liked his dogs. He could dance very well, if I remember right. I can be glad the fucker died and still believe there was SOME good in him._

_What if someone killed your kids?_

_I'd want to rip their heart out with my bare hands. And I'd never be the same person again. But it wouldn't make me wrong. Humanity is so flawed, but we're kind of beautiful because of it. That's why I hate that John Lennon song._

_You...what?_

_Imagine. Fucking hate it._

_Are you joking?_

_No!_

_Are you high?_

_Fuck you, lol. I think his stupid idealism undermines the very essence of humanity. He has to imagine a world without religion or countries or any sort of conflict for it to be perfect. To me that just sounds boring. That takes away what makes us unique—and yes, sometimes bad. But without the shitty stuff in the world, how do you appreciate the great? I hate war, I hate disease, I hate death...hell, I even hate conflict, I don't post anything about politics on facebook because I don't want to piss anyone off. But think about it. It's like...you remember when we met, and I was talking about Hamlet?_

_Kind of. It was funny._

_I said I wished he could have just stayed at school and hung out with R &G instead of getting dragged into the whole miserable mess. But that wouldn't have been a very good play, would it. Or if Caesar had believed the soothsayer, or Romeo had gotten Juliet's message in time. It'd be happier, yes. But it wouldn't be interesting._

_You like things interesting?_

_Not necessarily. Not for my own life, or to wish on anyone else...not in the sense I think you mean it right now. I'm just saying humanity's flaws make us beautiful, too. We're capable of extreme highs as well as lows, and fuck John Lennon._

_You make a compelling case on the state of humanity. But I still can't believe you don't like Lennon._

_We can agree to disagree, provided you don't make me listen to him._

_Not even early Beatles?_

_No, early Beatles are fine :) How's your day going?_

_Fine so far. It's my day off._

_How often do you get those?_

_Usually twice a week like everyone else. Just not necessarily on the weekend._

_At least you get a break. What have you been doing?_

_Slept in, went for a run, stopped by a taco cart on the way back. I got home and showered off, then surfed the internet and watched TV. I was thinking about buying some supplies and attempting to cook something, and you wrote. That's my whole day so far._

_It was riveting. Thank you for sharing! Do you cook a lot?_

_Most of the time it's easy to just grab something from a cart. But I'm low on everything, so if I have to go to the store anyway I might as well get some peppers and cheese and make an omelet._

_You need eggs for that, too._

_I already have eggs, Captain Obvious._

_:D I bet it's delicious. I've actually never tried making one. I do good scrambled eggs, though._

_Anyone can do scrambled eggs._

_Untrue. Eggs are easy to get wrong. Toast, now. Anyone can probably make toast._

_For someone who has faith in all of humanity, you're not showing a lot of it when it comes to food._

_There's a big difference between having something redeeming in your character, and being able to make something other people want to eat._

_Yeah._

_So when are we doing our next movie night?_

_You said they don't have it._

_I already ordered it off Amazon. It'll be here in two days._

_It's in six parts. Text me when you've got it, and we'll do part one._

_Deal._

_9/16/20_

_Got it! It came yesterday actually, but I didn't think I had very good odds of staying up late._

_Why not?_

_I woke up super early that morning. Still can't figure out why I couldn't go back to sleep. I must be getting old._

_What's that make me, then?_

_Almost getting old? Getting less old?_

_Every minute that goes by puts us closer to death._

_Oh, that's uplifting. Thank you, Mr Happy Thoughts._

_Glad to be of service._

_So do you feel like putting in your dvd and getting a phone call from that annoying but sweet midwestern girl?_

_Entertaining, not annoying. I work late tonight actually. Tomorrow?_

_Oh jeez. I'll pray for you._

_That won't help, but thanks._

_9/17/20_

_Are we on for tonight?_

_You bet. Until you wrote, I was debating between a rum and coke and a bag of chocolate for company._

_That's your drink?_

_Yeah, so?_

_I had you pegged as a wine-drinker._

_I enjoy moscato from time to time, too. I'm not really a big drinker in general, but there are days, you know? It's a nice way to unwind. Now the real question is why did you assume I favor pretentious drinks?_

_Wine isn't pretentious._

_Oh shit, are you a wine guy? I'm sorry._

_No, no. I'm a martini guy. I got ordered them when I was 21 and thought James Bond was cool, and I got used to it._

_I did that when I was about that age, too. But then I tried a sweet martini instead of dry, and I had it on a ship in bad weather and threw up in my underwear, and ever since then I just haven't been big into martinis._

_You threw up IN your underwear? As in, you were wearing just underwear and puking? Why were you on this ship? And why do you have better stories than me?_

_No, I was sitting on the toilet in the ship restroom with my pants around my ankles for exactly the reasons you'd think, and all of a sudden I threw up. The worst part was that we didn't have access to our luggage because we were only going across the channel, so I had to keep wearing them until we docked._

_Truly, truly horrible. Bravo._

_*takes a bow* Anyway martinis are very respectable. I dig it. You outclass me by a mile, though._

_You haven't seen me drunk._

_No...but you know, maybe I'd like to ;)_

_I cry._

_You do not!_

_I have it on good authority that I do._

_After how many martinis?_

_Four at the most, usually sooner._

_Omg that is so sad._

_And now that you know my dark secret, I have to kill you._

_That went all CIA in a hurry._

_We WERE talking about James Bond._

_Ah, good point. So are we doing this?_

_I've already got the DVD in._

_9/19/20_

_Part Four will have to wait. Which sucks because I'm getting really into it._

_I noticed that when you suggested a double-feature last night. Which I'm still sleep-deprived from, so this works out well._

_9/20/20_

_Are you caught up on sleep?_

_As much as ever. 9:30?_

_You bet._

_10/1/20_

_I should start paying you._

_For what?_

_Therapist and personal cheerleader._

_Gimme a D! (D!) Gimme an A! (A!) Gimme a what-the-fuck's-wrong-Dan-what-do-you-say?_

_I'm both disturbed and turned on now._

_Pretty much what I was going for. Needless to say I was not on the cheerleading squad. So what's wrong?_

_I get days like this sometimes. It's not pretty. I'll be going through the routine and laughing my best fake laugh and suddenly I just can't do it any more. I think, if I have to tell that joke one more time I'm going to start screaming. Go completely crazy. Just check out. Start yelling obscenities, hop off the boat, I don't know. Mostly when it happens I just imagine myself screaming and screaming with my hands in fists like a tiny little kid until I wind up fetal on the floor of the boat._

_Well THAT'S not good. What do you do?_

_It never happens. I plow ahead through the tour, and by the time I get to that same joke again the next time the feeling has passed._

_That's...good, I guess? Is it really that intense?_

_When it hits, I can't think. I just remember saying these words over and over and over and over again and hearing my own laugh in my head and wondering if my plastered-on smile looks like the grimace of pain it feels like._

_Yikes._

_Most days, I know I'm disillusioned and disgusted, but I can get through it all okay. But then there are just those days when I think I might go crazy._

_And today was one of them?_

_Yeah._

_I'm sorry. *worthless text hug* Remind me why you work there again?_

_It pays the bills and I've lost all self-respect._

_That's right. So what can I do? Is this one of those days when you WANT to talk about work?_

_I just did._

_Right, but beyond envisioning yourself curled up fetal while a bunch of kids stare at you?_

_Did you even listen when you went on the ride?_

_You know, the funny thing is that my first time through, I thought you actually found the jokes hilarious._

_I am insulted that you could possibly think that, but the part of me that still cares about being an actor is thrilled I was so convincing._

_See? Talent. Made all the more impressive by how much you actually hate it._

_Do you remember these jokes? I mean, they're BAD._

_They're what I think of as dad-jokes. If you deliver them with enough conviction, or a complete lack of conviction that shows you know they're awful, then they can be funny._

_Dad jokes are designed to make people groan, not laugh. I wish I had that luxury._

_You'd rather make people groan?_

_I guess not. But it'd feel more honest._

_You're an actor!_

_I'm a tour guide!_

_Only from 9-5._

_8-5. I get a lunch break._

_How many tours a day is that?_

_34, give or take. 34x5=170 a week. 170x50 weeks = 8,500 a year. With me so far?_

_Oh God._

_I've been working here more than seven years._

_Oh God._

_59,500. I have said “And here it is, folks, the back side of water!” 59,500 times._

_Jesus Christ._

_Yep. “But don't pet Ginger, Ginger snaps.” 59,500 times. “They have a wingspan ranging from twelve inches to a whopping one foot!” 59,500 times. “One way or another, they'll get the point.” 59,500 times. “If you enjoyed your ride, I'm Dan and this is the Jungle Cruise. If you didn't, I'm Bill and this is Splash Mountain.” 59,500 times. "This is Schweitzer Falls, named after the famous scientist Doctor Albert Falls." 59,500 times._

_I get it._

_“Look at the pride of lions protecting the sleeping zebra.” 59,500 times. “Here we are at the end and we have a dock on the left and a dock on the right, which we call a paradox.” 59,500 times. Really think about that number, Sharon. Think about it._

_It's a wonder you're still sane._

_Am I? Let me point out my favorite plants....59,500 times. A plane crash can only mean one thing...59,500 times. Bengal tigers can jump over 20 feet...59,500 times. If you feel your shoes filling with water...59,500 times._

_Okay stop, I get it._

_I can't stop. I can't ever stop. That's the tragedy of it._

_Dude! Snap out of it!_

_That's an African bull elephant, 59,500 times. I even hear it in my sleep. Don't worry, they're wearing their trunks, 59,500 times. How is this my life? Thirty-plus times a day, even day, year after year. I want to scream, AND I HAVE TO LAUGH._

_There, there, sweetie *pat on back*_

_Okay. I'm okay now._

_You are?_

_I screamed into my mattress until I couldn't breathe._

_Well that sounds healthy._

_59,500 TIMES, SHARON. Don't talk to me about “healthy.”_

_I know, I'm playing. You do what you gotta do. And I don't know how you do it every day, either. Skippers are superhuman. Do you guys ever all, like, hang out after work to get drunk and bitch?_

_All? No. Some of them actually love their jobs, for whatever reason. They think it's a blast and they're hilarious. And the rest of us...sometimes we do. But mostly we just go our separate ways at the end of the day and try to forget we work there._

_Don't need the physical reminder?_

_The less the better. Usually when we get together we wind up depressing ourselves more._

_Ugh, that's ugly. You know, I'd almost think it'd get easier after all those times. Like, you'd just get used to it._

_It did, for a while. The middle years were okay. I drank too much, but it wasn't so bad. But in the last year or so it went downhill again._

_Then maybe it'll get easier again? I mean, if you're determined not to quit. Because the uniform makes you a chick magnet?_

_If that were my reason for keeping this job, I think I'd buy a gun and have it for a snack._

_Right, right, pays the bills, right. But has it paid the bills 59,500 times?_

_It pays the bills better than the $0.00 I was earning before._

_At the cost of your dreams, though. That's pretty steep. If it costs you your sanity too, it doesn't matter HOW much they're paying you._

_Look, it's not your job to save me._

_If you've hired me as your therapist and cheerleader, I think it is._

_I can't afford you._

_I'll do it for free, then. Provided I don't have to wear a cheerleader outfit. I don't have the thighs for it._

_I don't recall there being anything wrong with your thighs._

_And comments like THAT are why I will keep texting you no matter how crazy you get :D Do you need to vent more? Or do you want to talk about something else?_

_What do you think the worst line is?_

_Um...um..._

_Here it is, folks. Get your cameras ready, this is the pinnacle of your trip, it's...the backside of water! Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it amazing? I tried to see it this morning, but I kept hitting my head on the sink._

_Lol! I can hear your voice in my head._

_I'm just talking myself in circles._

_Sometimes you need to. Vent all you want._

_I fucking hate that rhino, too. Chasing the guys up the pole. I warned them. Haha, yeah right._

_Have you ever thought about changing up the act? I mean, they give you some leeway with the script, don't they? Your friends don't have any ideas?_

_I've picked things up and dumped other things over the years, but the big ones you just can't get around. You've GOT to say the backside of water. You've GOT to talk about the stupid hippos. You've GOT to say one of the big cats can jump right over the boat. And little changes don't make a big difference. I'm still a tour guide. I'll always be a tour guide. I'm your skipper!_

_Aww, I wish I could hug you like one of my kids right now._

_Did they like it? I forget. The kids usually only get half the jokes. Maybe that makes them the smart ones._

_Xander liked it. He's just the right age to be into puns._

_How old again? Nine? Ten?_

_Ten. I wonder what he'd say if I told him who I was writing. He has an excellent memory._

_Well, just don't tell him you got me out of my skipper uniform. Kid doesn't need that._

_I did, though ;) I could use that again, honestly._

_Oh, are you planning any more trips out west?_

_I don't need sex THAT badly. If it didn't require hours on a plane, though... It was really fun._

_Wow, I was just joking._

_I wasn't. I need sex, dammit. I have been a single mom for four years, do you know how many times I've gotten laid?_

_I'd...I'd rather not._

_Alright I'll keep it vague, for your inexplicable prudishness. A few times, but it was a long while before you and there certainly hasn't been anything since. And I'm sorry, I totally just made this about me instead of about you. Go on. Jungle cruise. Sucks ass. Worst job ever. You're a saint._

_A saint? There's one I don't hear every day._

_Hold on to it, then :)_

_I will. I think I'm done ranting._

_Really?_

_Let me think._

_Go do something nice for yourself._

_Such as?_

_Go read a book and eat something bad for you. Sorry, that's hedonist advice from a nerd for you._

_Doesn't make it bad advice._

_Any time._

_10/9/20_

_Are you having a bearable today? Because if so, it's my turn to bitch and beg for a distraction from my life._

_I can pretend to be happy for ten minutes to find out what could possibly put Saint Sharon in a bad mood._

_Ha, ha, ha. Saints do not swear like I do. They definitely don't spend nights of vacation getting wrecked by guys they just met. And they probably go to church from time to time._

_Wrecked?_

_Destroyed._

_That may have just put me in a genuine good mood. Now what's wrong?_

_Just a confluence of mom stuff._

_Like?_

_You want the whole list?_

_Go for it._

_My period's due, I feel fat, I swear I'm the only one who EVER cleans up ANYTHING around here, Xander refuses to tell me any details about his day, AND he bitches and moans whenever I remind him to practice guitar even though I know he loves playing. The weather has been wet and cold and shitty this week. I've gone out for my walks anyway but my fingers get cold and my hair gets in my face and the muscles between my shoulders tense up and don't let go. Why can't Wesley do anything for himself? Mom! Mom! Mom! I need you! WHAT? What could you possibly need now? Though I guess I should be glad he still wants to spend time with me. Every weekend Xan is all “can I go hang out with Mindy? Can I go hang out at Bella's? Can I go see Madison? I'm going over to Cody's.” What are you doing, love? Texting Emma. It's dinnertime, I have to tell him to get off the damn phone. I wish I'd never gotten it for him but all his other friends had one a year ago so I caved on his birthday. So now of course Wesley thinks he gets one too. And he's pestering me constantly about it. Xander has one, why can't I? ARGH! What do you even do? And he watches the STUPIDEST TV shows. I miss the days of Daniel Tiger and Justin Time. My best friend has been swamped at work and busy with her husband, so I never hear from her. Halloween is coming up in a few weeks and I haven't even started on costumes. It's just...it's all stupid little shit, but sometimes it adds up, you know? And now I feel bad for bitching about my kids to you because they are actually GREAT kids and I forgot you don't know that yet._

_Sure I do. You're their mom._

_*hug* Thank you for that. I just...I need a break sometimes, you know? You'd think with them both at school now, I'd have more time to myself, and technically I guess I do. But it makes me feel like I should be doing more with them when we ARE together, and when I feel pressured I get stressed and do an even worse job._

_So how much of your stress is coming from them, and how much of it is of your own making?_

_*sigh* Mostly it's coming from me. Some of it is the mess, because I really hate messes—at least, when they get out of control. I don't dust religiously or anything like that but I like being able to see the whole floor! Anyway it's a constant, losing battle in a house with kids. My car is even worse._

_That'd make me crazy, too. I like having control of my own space._

_You just like having control, don't you!_

_It's a problem, I know._

_Nah, it makes sense. You feel like you have none at work. Or were you always like this?_

_I was, but work makes it worse._

_Jeez, how do your girlfriends cope?_

_You know I don't have any._

_Not currently, maybe. How DID they cope?_

_It varied. So what are you going to do about your problems?_

_Do? Nothing. Most of them will seem unimportant this time tomorrow. I just needed to vent._

_That's it?_

_Yeah. I know they're trivial problems, and I'm pretty good at enjoying what I've got. It's just every now and then it all gets to me._

_Well, what about the stress?_

_This is weird, having you be all reasonable and helpful with MY issues._

_I can barely deal with kids for the length of a boat ride. You have two, you never really escape, and you do it by yourself._

_This is what I always wanted, though. I mean, not the doing-it-myself part, necessarily. But I always wanted a family, specifically little boys. I have a nice house, a great neighborhood, and kids I adore. I shouldn't complain._

_You're allowed to complain. I still think you're a saint._

_Please see my earlier argument._

_My favorite kind of saint._

_LOL. Want to distract me from my frustration?_

_That depends how._

_Well, Watson, what do I talk about when you need to be distracted?_

_Your day. But hearing about my day will not make either of us happier._

_Your past, then. Tell me about all the shows you used to do._

_You've heard about them._

_What about high school? Tell me about high school drama._

_Are you kidding? High school?_

_What's wrong with high school? I have great memories of high school drama._

_I guess I do, too._

_You sound surprised._

_I try not to think about it much._

_Why wouldn't you?_

_It hurts._

_:( Don't, then. I don't want to bum you out._

_Too late, I'm already thinking about it. And it's not so bad. Our drama teacher had a hard-on for Shakespeare, so we did one for our big production every winter. They were long and at least 1/3 of the cast wouldn't really belong in the show at all. They needed translators to even know what their lines meant, you know?_

_All too well. We did Romeo and Juliet at my school one year. The leads were okay but the rest was painful._

_That was us, too._

_You were the lead, though?_

_Of course I was._

_In which shows?_

_All of them._

_Right, but which ones did you do?_

_Oh. Freshman year was Midsummer._

_I'm not sure who the lead technically is in that! Demetrius? Oberon? Lysander? Robin?_

_You mean Puck?_

_Yes, that was it! I kept thinking “Peck.”_

_I'm disowning you._

_So you were Puck, then?_

_Yes._

_I wanted to be Helena. I felt bad for her, had her first monologue memorized._

_Which one?_

_How happy some o'er other some can be. Through Athens I am thought as fair as she! But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so..._

_Would you play it bitter, or funny?_

_Mostly bitter for that speech. But her role becomes more comedic as the show progresses. All of them do, really. So go on, what else?_

_Romeo and Juliet was next. Comedy, tragedy, comedy, tragedy._

_Do you have any tapes of these?_

_Romeo's not really one of my favorite roles. He's an idiot._

_I bet you were brilliant, though._

_Stop trying to feed my ego._

_Why? It's hungry ;)_

_I did have fun that year, though. My best friend Kevin was Mercutio so we had a lot of fun backstage. He was always pulling pranks._

_Like what?_

_Switching props, putting on music at the wrong times, just general goofing. Our director hated him._

_Backstage shenanigans are pretty par for the course in high school plays, I think._

_They are, but Kev set the bar._

_Gotcha. Was he in the show after that?_

_Yes. We needed him. Taming of the Shrew._

_How was your shrew?_

_That was Joy. We were friends. She was good! I haven't heard from her in years._

_Okay, and what was your starring role senior year?_

_Title role in that Scottish play._

_Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him who first cries hold!_

_Are you googling these?_

_If I was googling them, I would have remembered the name Puck._

_How can you remember whole lines, and not remember that?_

_“Lay on, Macduff” is famous._

_“Else, the Puck a liar call; so, good night unto you all.”_

_“And ROBIN shall restore amends.”_

_Don't challenge me to a bard-off. You won't win._

_Such a thing would never even occur to me. So tell me, did you guys actually follow the superstition with Macbeth?_

_No, we were high schoolers. And nothing went badly wrong with the production. It was one of our better ones, actually._

_Was Kevin Macduff?_

_No, he was Banquo. My friend Max was Macduff._

_I bet you were friends with the whole drama crowd._

_It was a good group._

_Aww :) I'm trying to imagine little high-school Dan; fresh-faced, enthusiastic, full of those big dreams..._

_I wish I could go back and smack that kid!_

_Oh you do not._

_Part of me does. If I'd had more sense at 17 I would have majored in business and not wound up here._

_But?_

_But I was happy then._

_Aww._

_[IMAGE]_

_Omg you're adorable! I'm dying!_

_Stop._

_SOOOOO CUTE_

_Shoot me._

_You love it. You're so young!_

_Obviously._

_That's R &J?_

_Yeah. Me at 16._

_My heart is melting._

_Please stop._

_You want to see me? Fair's fair._

_Sure._

_[IMAGE] Me at sixteen. Junior Homecoming._

_Jesus you look young._

_I know. It's weird, isn't it! I don't think I've changed that much, but there's just something so smooth and hopeful and innocent. I look okay for 37 but you look at my gray hairs and the lines at the corners of my eyes now, and you look back at that...I don't know. It FEELS like a long time ago, doesn't it._

_A lifetime._

_Thank you. I feel better. Just needed to vent, I guess._

_Being a single mom can't be easy._

_I don't think being anything is easy, really._

_At least you don't work for Disney._

_Ha ha. Night, Dan :)_

_10/10/20_

_How's it going?_

_Much better! How about you?_

_Weird. I keep looking at those old pictures. What were you LIKE at 17?_

_Horny as hell and socially awkward._

_Come on now, you're just describing every teenager anywhere ever._

_Lol, I never thought of it like that. I was crazy. I should send you pictures out of my journal, good lord._

_Still every teenager ever._

_I thought I was madly in love with every guy I crushed on. Sometimes I even convinced myself I was going to marry them someday. But I only ever dated two of them, and neither went very well. The one who gave me my first kiss on a band trip around the same time that photo was taken, he dumped me a few weeks later, and wound up dropping out of school, working for his dad's phone sex line, and coming out of the closet._

_That's almost as good as your martini story._

_I was big into band and drama, but you already know that. I played baritone in class, and was in colorguard all four years of marching band. We won at the state level my senior year. Oh, and I did mock trial my senior year. You know what that is?_

_It sounds terrifying._

_No, it was a blend of law and drama. Four-person teams, everyone gets the same case. You decide how to argue it from each side, and then go up against another team. Sometimes I'd be the prosecution attorney, sometimes I'd be a witness for the defense. At any rate, we won that at state too, and took third nationally._

_Alright, that's impressive._

_Thank you! What else...I had a pretty good relationship with my parents. I was still a teenage girl, but I didn't regularly scream about hating them or sneak out at night or anything like that...though I don't know what I would have snuck out to do, because I never touched the party scene. I had two best friends, Ronnie and Alexa. We liked to hang out at each other's houses and Big Boy. Watch rom-coms and eat junk food and talk about God knows what, but I know we were ALWAYS talking. Usually about boys or movies, I think._

_I didn't do band or talk about boys, but that doesn't sound too far off from how I was. There were seven of us who hung out the most. The rest of the drama kids would come and go, or had their own circles. We were bad sometimes, but never sneaking out of the house level bad. Christ though, I was so STUPID. I really thought I was going to be the next Brad Pitt or Tom Hanks or Marlon Brando. Really believed I was going to be huge._

_Well, you're good! You knew what you were good at, what's wrong with that?_

_That's the part I really wish I could kick in the ass, that confidence and naivete. I wasn't just going to make it as an actor, no, that wasn't enough for young Dan. I was going to be FAMOUS. I was going to be fighting off models and paparazzi._

_Everyone dreams big when they're kids. Even I went through that phase._

_You grew out of it, though. I didn't._

_Yes you did :(_

_Fine, I grew out of it too late._

_You think we would have been friends in high school? If we'd known each other?_

_Are we friends NOW?_

_I don't know what else you'd call it!_

_Look at that kid. He thinks he's a genius. He thinks the world loves him. He has no idea he's going to spend decades wearing Kilimanjaro costume rejects and talking up the backside of water._

_Kilimanjaro...?_

_You didn't go on that one? They've got the same costumes as us._

_Oh. Well, you wear it better._

_How would you know, if you never went there?_

_Um... >_>_

_Or do you just go around hitting on guys from all the rides?_

_Good lord, where would I find the time? I'll stick to just you, thanks._

_You're good at it._

_I once had a dream, a long time ago, that I was a WWII comfort woman....only, um, voluntary, and on the Allied side. I was in some sort of barracks full of injured and terrified men and went around...um, yeah._

_Why would you tell me that?_

_Things just come out of my head sometimes. Sorry. Sometimes Xander will toss a funny insult at me and I'll respond “YOUR MOM!” and then be like...oh wait, that's me. Crap. My filter doesn't work sometimes._

_LOL. Does he get it?_

_Yes. He cringes._

_Ha, you're doing a good job then._

_*takes a bow* I live to humiliate my children. My favorite is singing in the car. Sometimes I throw in dance moves. It's pretty spectacular._

_I can imagine it._

_I don't think you can. My lip-synching is first-class, too. I could be Milli Vanilli._

_That really is horrible._

_I've gotta get my kicks somehow. You should try it sometime._

_Badly lip-synching to traumatize children? You know, that does sound fun._

_See? Work it into your next tour :D_

_I'll get fired._

_No you won't. I bet you can actually make it funny._

_10/23/20_

_I just wrote to say I hate you._

_Can I ask why?_

_I got out my winter coat today. It's not even Halloween!_

_How cold does it have to be for you to bundle up?_

_I'm from Michigan. It can be 40 out and I'll be fine in a sweater._

_So less than 40?_

_A lot less._

_30?_

  1. _It's not snowing but it might as well be. And go on, tell me Mr. California, what's your weather like today?_



_People are wearing jackets here, too._

_HOW WARM, DAN?_

_74._

_I hate you._

_If you hate cold weather why are you so gung-ho about Michigan?_

_We don't get earthquakes, hurricanes, or tornadoes. I'll take the snow. I just don't like it._

_Right. Well, thanks for thinking of me with your hate._

_Anytime ;)_

_10/28/20_

_Do you follow politics?  
I hate politics._

_That just means you're paying attention! You hate the president?_

_The entire state of California hates that fucker._

_Good. Call me._

_11/3/20_

_How are you holding up?_

_Kill me, I can't handle the suspense._

_You really think it could go either way?_

_After last time, I don't take anything for granted. Let's just pray._

_Right, that'll help._

_What else are we supposed to do? Get drunk?_

_Yep. Champagne if we win, cheap whiskey if we lose._

_Well jeez, now you make me hope we lose. Cheap whiskey is a lot more affordable. Plus I can't finish a bottle of champagne all by myself._

_You make a solid case. Let's root for failure._

_Lol you're the best._

_11/15/20_

_How have you been? I haven't heard anything in ages._

_SSDD._

_Haven't gone fetal and screamed yet?_

_Nope._

_Haven't gone to any auditions?_

_What do YOU think?_

_That I understand why you gave up, but it makes me sad._

_So I make you sad? Thanks._

_It's called sympathy._

_Never heard of it._

_Ha._

_Why are you laughing? I'm not funny, remember?_

_I never said that. I pointed out that you never do comedies. Personally, I find you hilarious._

_I did do comedies._

_Why have I never heard about them?_

_I told you how every year our drama teacher did a big Shakespeare production in winter, right? Well, every fall was a comedy, and every spring was a musical._

_Wait, you can sing, too?_

_I sing okay. There were better singers, but they couldn't act._

_Tenor or baritone?_

_Baritone. That's probably the other reason I got the parts._

_And the parts were...?_

_Prince in Cinderella, Albert in Bye Bye Birdie, Baker in Into the Woods, Curly in Oklahoma._

_Oooh Into the Woods! I love that one! Act Two is a little dark for high school, but then so is Macbeth. Guess your director was just into that shit._

_We did Arsenic and Old Lace for one of our comedies._

_Fantastic! What else?_

_You can't take it with you, noises off, and the odd couple._

_You were Felix?_

_How did you know?_

_Because you're Felix._

_I am not!_

_Okay not exactly. And I don't doubt you could have played Oscar. But you feel more like a Felix *shrug*_

_I think I'm insulted._

_Please don't be. You would have been all neurotic and adorable. I probably just said it because I like Felix better._

_Not surprised._

_So tell me, which was your favorite? In high school._

_Definitely had the most fun in R &J. The Odd Couple was a good time, too. I'm probably the proudest of the Scottish play, though. Solid performance._

_I think your drama teacher wasn't the only one who really liked Shakespeare._

_He's one of the greatest for a reason._

_You won't hear me disagree. I took whole classes in him for literature. Started reading the Complete Works when I was about 14. It was really pretentious of me in retrospect._

_You asked me a while back if I thought we would have been friends in high school. Can I answer now?_

_Yeah, I remember you dodging that one. Go for it._

_Yes._

_:)_

_Are you up for another movie night sometime?_

_Hell yeah! What are we watching?_

_Citizen Kane?_

_Already seen it. I've been through a lot of the classics. Could always rewatch them, though. I have the Godfather._

_Are you just going doing the AFI list?_

_The top 100? No, but that's what I did at one point. I know I'm still missing some, though._

_Have you ever seen Whiplash?_

_Never heard of it. Is it on there?_

_No, it won Sundance a few years back. It's solid._

_What's it about?_

_A drummer at a music institute and his asshole instructor._

_Okay, I'm in. I'll check the library and let you know._

_Still refusing to go to rent from Amazon?_

_I'm nothing if not stubborn._

_11/18/20_

_Okay, found Whiplash. I picked up Bridge on the River Kwai, too, because I've never seen it. Have you?_

_Not since college. Save that for later in the week?_

_Sounds great!_

_9:30?_

_Right in one._

_12/1/20_

_Happy birthday! Sorry it's been a while. What did you do today?_

_Work._

_Why would you do that to yourself?_

_What difference does it make?_

_I dunno, you could maybe enjoy your birthday? How was work, then? Bearable? Any soccer moms hit on you lately?_

_One a few weeks ago, but I ignored it. 40s, obvious had work done, tits looked fake even by LA standards._

_So you didn't get herpes for your birthday! Best present ever._

_Why do you always do that?_

_What?_

_Put a positive spin on things._

_It's what I do. It's still your birthday, right? The night is young. Go do something._

_I'm depressed and boring. Going to sleep._

_If that's what you really need :( I'll have a drink for you, then. *sings happy birthday under her breath*_

_12/2/20_

_Sorry about yesterday._

_Don't worry about it. I hate my birthday, too._

_I could have at least said thanks._

_Well yeah, but then how would you have conveyed the full extent of your misery?_

_Thanks._

_Did you at least get a good rest?_

_Yeah. Today hasn't been bad._

_Yay!_

_Did you get drunk?_

_Lol, not really. The kids distracted me and I accomplished nothing last night._

_You don't sound too unhappy about it._

_We were playing games and being stupid. It was a good time._

_I'm glad somebody had one._

_Well, here's to a better year!_

_I wish I had your optimism._

_12/13/20_

_I hate Christmas, I hate Christmas, I hate Christmas._

_It's not Christmas yet._

_I hate the whole fucking month._

_What happened to Saint Sunshine?_

_Ooh, you've upgraded my name, I like it. What happened is that there IS NO SUNSHINE. It is SNOWING and SHITTY and I haven't been outside in days because either it's freezing cold or I'm bent over on the living room floor wrapping presents. FML._

_And yet you claim to love Michigan._

_I do love Michigan. I just hate winter._

_It's 65 degrees here today._

_I hate you, too._

_No you don't._

_Fine, I don't. But fuck you and your warm climate._

_I didn't write to rub it in. You wrote me._

_Because I'm thinking of you being out there on a boat with a bunch of tourists in t-shirts, with the sun shining. I don't wear jealousy well._

_You're JEALOUS? I'm up to 61,200 and change._

_Are you going anywhere for Christmas?_

_Not this year. I have work._

_ON CHRISTMAS? WTF?!_

_Someone's gotta do it._

_Well let it be one of those assholes who love their job, then._

_I got it off last year._

_That is beyond horrible. Are you working Thanksgiving, too?_

_Are you going to flip out if I say yes?_

_Of course not!_

_Yes._

_OMGWTF? What the fucking fuck!_

_I wasn't going home anyway._

_It's the principle of the thing!_

_But at least I have nice weather, right?_

_I take it back. You have it worse. I will stfu and go play in the snow *hug*_

_Isn't it 9:00 out there?_

_12/15/20_

_What are you doing for Christmas, then?_

_Ughhhhh_

_Never mind._

_No, it's cool. Just a lot of travel. We're carpooling with my MIL down to see her family. We used to always do it with Marty, but I can't handle driving in the big city._

_How far is it?_

_Chicago suburbs. About four hours. It's just some aunts and uncles now, and I like them, but I hate the travel and it's always a little awkward. The boys love staying at a hotel, though. For some reason that's the most exciting thing in the world for children. We don't even have to DO anything, just go sleep somewhere different and they're over the moon._

_That must make vacation easy._

_Have you tried staying cooped up in a hotel room with a couple of boys for hours on end and only one TV?_

_Not easy?_

_Tedious. At least when they were younger we could play hide and seek and stuff._

_How many places are there to hide in a hotel room?_

_Omg you really need to play games with small children. You don't get it._

_What am I missing?_

_They suck at hiding. Parts of them will be visible and they'll be giggling the whole time but you pretend not to see them and they love it._

_How long is that fun for?_

_For them? Hours. For me? Longer than it's fun to play Candyland over and over again. I'm so glad they outgrew that phase. Anyway, after that we have two days to recoup before Christmas. We do the whole stocking and cookie thing the night before, even though Xander doesn't believe in Santa anymore, and the next morning we'll open presents as soon as I've had my shower and coffee. Which I'll have to wake up early to do, or else they'll wake up first and game's over. Then we go up to my parents' for the rest of the day, spend the night, head home the next morning. And then it's two weeks of Christmas break where I have to find things to entertain everyone and not let the mess get out of control._

_That sounds exhausting._

_Oh, and my best friend and her husband will be in town, so we're having them over for dinner. And we'll probably hang out with some of the boys' friends, which will help a lot in the entertainment department if not the mess._

_Are you done yet?_

_I really sound like I hate it, don't I? I don't. I like Christmas. I just don't like cold or travel. Or being cooped up._

_Want to trade?_

_If that was an option, I might take it. Except doing so would require travel._

_You could do it because you love me._

_1) I don't love you THAT much and 2) I don't know the spiel._

_I am hurt._

_You are?_

_Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but tis enough, twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow and you will find me a grave man._

_Oh come on._

_I am peppered, I warrant, for this world._

_No fair resorting to Shakespeare._

_You have made worms' meat of me!_

_Lol stop! I'm sorry! Fine, let's switch jobs._

_Really?_

_No. But because it's impossible, not because I don't care :)_

_I guess I can't argue with that._

_You're funny._

_No, I'm desperate._

_You're stronger than you think, you know._

_Not at all. I'm just trying to impress you._

_You've already impressed me. Save your energy for something worthwhile._

_12/30/20_

_Is the chaos over?_

_Dan! You survived Christmas!_

_I'm still here._

_Same shit different day?_

_Pretty much, yeah._

_Well how WERE the holidays? Did you get any presents, at least? Shit, I should have sent you something. I don't even know your address. Belated happy holidays :)_

_You seem happier._

_The kids are driving me nuts but the end is in sight. Their first day back at school I will clean and clean and the relief will be practically orgasmic. So?_

_So what?_

_So how was your Christmas?_

_Boring, but a bit more tolerable than usual, I guess. Had to throw in a bunch of Christmas references into the act, so it was different enough to keep me from screaming. Good day. Then I had several cups of eggnog and threw up._

_Awesome. Do they pay you overtime for holidays?_

_Not unless you've already worked your five days. But you can always pick up some extra hours at time-and-a-half._

_EXTRA hours? Why would you do that to yourself?_

_…masochism?_

_Ha, but seriously._

_Money, Sharon. Money._

_Do they at least give you a Christmas bonus?_

_They give us Disney Dollars. They're collectibles, but if you're really desperate they're still legal tender within the park. I can buy myself lunch for a week now._

_I'm speechless._

_It's better than a kick in the face._

_Dude, it IS a kick in the face._

_After this many years, I can't feel the pain._

_Oh, I missed you._

_Liar._

_No, it's true. No one else in my life can sound quite as beautifully persecuted as you. Even Wesley, when he's sobbing because I failed to buy his favorite chips at the grocery store._

_Now you're just mocking me._

_A little. But I did miss you. I'm glad you got your overtime, I guess. Are you really going to spend your bonus?_

_No. I'll put it in my pillowcase so I can cry on it every night instead._

_LOL. I mean....as long as you're joking. That WAS a joke, right?_

_Yes._

_Phew. So hey, are we at the phase now where I can shower you with unwanted videos and pictures of my kids? They were hilarious yesterday._

_Uh, sure._

_[VIDEO]_

_Did he write that himself?_

_I wouldn't say “write” so much as “improvised,” but yes._

_That's pretty solid work._

_I like Wesley's show-stealing at the end. He's been doing that since he was two._

_He looks so serious._

_He always does when he's concentrating. I think I'm the same. He's got a great smile, though._

_You do have cute kids._

_Thank you :D_

_Xander's very aware of the camera, isn't he._

_Oh jeez yes. “Ready, Mom? Start now! Aaaaand cut!”_

_Does he think HE'S going to be a movie star?_

_Rock star._

_Don't let him get too carried away._

_Aw, are you worried he'll wind up at the Jungle Cruise too? I'll make sure he has a back-up plan._

_You don't want to just kill his dreams now and save the grief later?_

_No, I don't want to kill my kid's dreams!_

_You'd rather see him wind up like me?_

_There are worse things._

_No, there really aren't._

_I think he'll grow out of it, honestly. He's a good musician but he also talks about being a teacher sometimes. He's only ten, and he already lost his father. I don't think I want to heap any more cruel reality on him until I have to._

_What are you doing for New Years?_

_I never do ANYTHING for New Years. I don't stay up till midnight, I don't have anyone to kiss when the ball drops, and I don't like stupid resolutions. What about you?_

_I don't know._

_You mean you don't have work?_

_For once, no._

_That's a good start to 2021, then._

_I guess it is._

_Are you thinking of doing anything? Any invites?_

_Some of the other Adventurelanders are getting drunk at some bar and invited me along._

_You should go!_

_Maybe. I'm considering it._

_Any friends of yours?_

_If by “friends” you mean “person to trade painful stories with,” then yes. There was a kid on my boat last week who was scared of the piranhas. She was in tears. Thought they were going to eat through the boat._

_That poor girl! How old was she?_

_Five at most._

_What'd you do?_

_I didn't have to do much. I dropped the act, knelt down, and told her I went down this river every day and that had never, ever happened. Her parents handled the rest._

_Did she calm down?_

_Not till the ride ended._

_Yuck. That must have been fun._

_It was a nice change._

_You actually mean that, don't you._

_God yes._

_Well listen, if you don't wind up going out with your friends, I'll be home with the Godfather DVD and a bottle of rum, and if you were to call I could probably wake up._

_That's a better offer. You know that, right?_

_Well, we single 30-somethings with no lives have to stick together._

_Is it a date, then?_

_Hell yeah it's a date._

_1/3/21_

_Do you ever listen to Fat Bottom Girls and think, good God, that nanny should be brought up on criminal charges?_

_No, but now I'll never be able to hear it again without thinking that._

_Sorry._

_1/6/21_

_Sometimes I wonder if talking to you is good for me._

_What do you mean?_

_I mean it makes me feel really good for a little while, when you ask about the stuff I've done in theater and tell me how talented I am, and I know you mean it. There's a part of me that wakes up and says hey, that WAS fun, hey, you ARE good! But then I go back to work the next day and it all feels even more unfair and unbearable than it did the day before._

_I....I don't know what to say to that :'( Do you want me to leave you alone?_

_No. Yes? No, I don't._

_Good. But it makes me really sad that you feel that way sometimes. I want to help. You know that, right?_

_Of course I know that. And you do. But you also can't. You help, and that's saying a lot. But it doesn't change the way the world works. It doesn't really change anything._

_You have to want a change._

_You think I don't?_

_No. You've given up. You said so yourself. And if you're not even fighting for something better, there's not a lot I can do, you're right._

_Thanks. I needed to be scolded right now._

_You know that's not what I'm doing. I'm trying to agree with you. Say I understand._

_You don't, though. You can't._

_I haven't been there, no. But I have a pretty good imagination. I only bring up the old stuff because...I don't know, exactly. You come alive when you're talking about it. And I KNOW how good you are. It's none of my business really, but you can't just set that whole chunk of your life aside. It hurt you, sure, but it's the best of you._

_The best of me. So it's all downhill from here?_

_That's not what I meant at all._

_Yeah, yeah. I'm just being a shit. Sorry._

_You don't have to apologize. I just don't know what I can say or do. You just need to vent?_

_No, I vent enough. Distract me._

_Do you want to talk? I'll call you up and tell you about my day. I'll even include Wesley's fart jokes and the dirty socks on the table._

_1/11/21_

_So how's life?_

_SSDD. I sound like a broken record._

_That's how I feel at home, so don't worry about it. “Mom!” What? “Mom!” What? “Mom!” WHAT DO YOU NEED, CHILD?_

_Parenting must be terrifying._

_No, it's fun. Especially when they start learning to tell real jokes. And I'm sharing all my old favorite books with Wesley at bedtime lately. Plus hugs from a kid are the best things in the world._

_I get them sometimes. It's weird. Sweet, but awkward._

_Aww, your kids hug you sometimes!?_

_They're not MY kids. But yeah, once in a while at the end of a tour one will._

_How can you hate your job then?_

_Back side of water, Sharon. You try making it funny one time, let alone 60,000._

_Good point, well made. But still, enjoy the damn hugs from children. Just get out of your head and let a little person give you love for five seconds. Maybe some tourist will get a picture of your real smile._

_My real smile?_

_You didn't know there was a difference?_

_I thought I did a pretty good job faking it._

_You do. Don't worry, I doubt anyone else notices. I only did because I saw the real thing, too. Anyway, I have more variety than you, but my weeks are kind of rinse-and-repeat, too. Get kids to school, exercise, clean, shop, pick kids up from school, activities, dinner, homework, bed. It's not a bad routine, but it doesn't leave me in much of a position to criticize your lack of variety._

_I shouldn't ask how your day was, then?_

_If there was anything new, I would tell you. So you said same shit, does that mean no one burst into tears today?_

_I was crying on the inside, does that count?_

_It does not._

_Then no._

_No one fell off the boat?_

_Believe it or not, that's never happened._

_Anyone actually laugh at your jokes?_

_Ha, that's a good one. No._

_Any hot girls?_

_Not that noticed me. And since they were barely out of high school, I shouldn't have noticed them either._

_I know what you mean. I see them when I drive through campus in the fall. They look so young you don't want to admire them, but some of their clothes are just so slutty you have to look._

_You check out college girls?_

_I've done a lot more than that. But that was a long time ago, back when I was in college too. Anyway, like I said, you kind of can't HELP looking sometimes. As long as that's all you do, I don't think it makes you a creeper._

_Can we return to the part of that where you said you fucked girls in college? Why has that never been discussed before?_

_Because it never came up? I'm mostly straight._

_Mostly?_

_I forget how the kinsey scale works. I appreciate women. Sometimes I want them. But I've only ever dated men. Unless I fall madly in love with some woman who thinks I'm totally fuckable at 40, it's not an issue._

_That makes sense._

_Um. Where were we?_

_You got me._

_Right....um. Work! Uneventful. Slutty college girls, check. No disasters, check. No going fetal or laughing hysterically over nothing?_

_That's correct._

_Great. What are you having for dinner?_

_I picked up some spring rolls on the way home. I'll say that for LA, you can pick up any kind of food you want without going far. And there's always fresh fruit._

_That does sound nice. What else are you up to?_

_Making myself go for a run, doing some reading._

_Good for you. Running sucks._

_Is your weather improving yet?_

_It's January._

_So no?_

_No. We have another three months of this shit. Though it might warm up enough to melt some of the snow later this week._

_How much do you have?_

_[IMAGE]_

_Wow._

_That's our cul-de-sac._

_Christ._

_Yep._

_1/19/21_

_[IMAGE] Look what Wes made in school! I'm dying._

_How old is he again? Six?_

_Yeah._

_He's not a bad artist. The blood is a nice touch._

_I swear that kid was a soldier in a past life._

_You believe in reincarnation?_

_I don't know. I never did before I had him, except in terms of wishful thinking. But when he was little he'd do some weird stuff that made me wonder. This sort of thing is just funny leftovers. I guess we'll never know for sure. What do you believe?_

_I was raised Presbyterian, if that's what you mean._

_And I was raised Lutheran, but I haven't gone to church there in a long-ass time._

_What do you mean, then?_

_I mean what do you BELIEVE?_

_Honestly, I don't know._

_Neither do I. Most days I feel like there's some sort of God and some sort of afterlife, but I don't think the purpose of life is all that elevated. It just goes back to my John Lennon rant. I think we're here to enjoy life as much as we can._

_And what about the kids who die? Or who grow up in such shitty conditions they're more worried about their next meal or not getting raped and murdered than enjoying themselves?_

_I don't know. That's why I think there must be some afterlife or second chance. But I look at the world and all it has to offer, and there's so much beauty in it, there must be a reason. You ever just look up at the sky on a nice day? Or lie down and feel a warm breeze? Listen to kids laughing? Probably not, right? I do._

_Maybe that's why you always seem so happy._

_Ha. I wasn't happy a month ago. You hid from me for two weeks._

_No I didn't. I just didn't bother you._

_There's a difference?_

_Yeah, there is._

_Well anyway, you should try it. Looking at the sky, trying to appreciate the little things. The rest will follow. Or I can just keep pestering you. Whatever works._

_1/20/21_

_Hey Dan! [VIDEO]_

_Did you just Rick Roll me?_

_Technically I think it has to be a video of Rick Astley singing it._

_Why couldn't you have done that?_

_Aw come on, you didn't like it?_

_This is how you torture your kids, right?_

_Torture is a strong w...yes, yes it is._

_And you wanted to subject me to it why?_

_Because I'm adorably bad. And you know, it could have been a lot worse._

_It gets worse?_

_Lots. This was just lip-synching. Did it at least make you smile?_

_*sigh*_

_I knew it! :D_

_1/22/21_

_Can I ask you something? Whatever happened to all your friends from high school?_

_The theater guys? Why?_

_The ones you hung out with. I think you said there were six or seven of you?_

_I still talk to Kevin._

_Really? Where is he?_

_He moved to Portland for a job while I was still out east. We text sometimes. He's been married almost as long as I've been in LA._

_Did he calm down after high school? Who married him?_

_A nice woman I don't know very well. We only met a few times. Christ, ten years._

_You don't ever visit?_

_I try not to. It's painful._

_Boo :( He doesn't care that you're not famous! He's your FRIEND._

_We just don't have much in common any more._

_Well I'm glad you still make an effort, I guess. What do you text about?_

_He sends me lots of stupid news links and stories. Asks how I'm doing once in a while._

_That's nice. I bet if you visited you guys could go out for a drink or something. Didn't you used to have sleepovers? Alexa and I still did that as adults, when we could get away._

_But I'm not visiting. Not any time soon, anyway._

_Fine, fine. What about the rest of them?_

_Nick's married with three or four kids. We wrote back and forth a lot in college, he was better at it than Kev. His wife seemed really funny, I got lots of stories when they were first dating. Haven't heard from him much in the past few years, though._

_Probably because you dropped off the radar. Get on facebook. Say hi._

_I didn't ask for a professional motivator today._

_Alright, alright, no helpful advice. Who else?_

_Cheryl and Brandon I haven't heard from since we were about 20, so I have no clue. Max and Joy went to college together and wound up hooking up, according to Nick. We never saw it coming. I think I got an invite to their wedding, actually. But it was a long time ago._

_You didn't go?_

_No._

_Oy. You went to Kevin's though, right?_

_I was a groomsman._

_That's great! Did anyone else go into theater?_

_I know Joy was majoring in it at OSU. But she wasn't looking to be a movie star. She's probably a professor or high school teacher, if anything._

_Yeah, not many of my friends went on with it after college, either. My old roommate is really good at costume design, and one girl from high school does some community theater, but that's all I know of. Still, that makes sense. Not everyone who does drama in high school is cut out to be a star._

_Which I should have realized back then._

_No, you shouldn't have. I think it's amazing that you chased your dreams. You actually got into Julliard. That blows my mind every time I think about it._

_Yeah, I had to go to New York to audition in person and everything. It was intense._

_You loved every minute of it, didn't you._

_I was shitting myself the whole time._

_Until you got on stage, I bet._

_Why do you make me remember these things? Yes. Then I killed it. I knew I was in as soon as I finished._

_Like they told you, or you just knew?_

_Just knew. Mom and I went out to dinner to celebrate. It was a great night._

_I bet it was! You remember what you ate?_

_Orange chicken and about a hundred pot-stickers._

_Niiiiiice._

_It was early spring. Six months after 9/11. We'd gone to see the memorials the day before, and the next day we went to an art museum and a show. That was all we could afford, but Mom wanted to make a little vacation out of it. I was eighteen and so busy with my own shit, I guess she wanted the time...anyway, it was cold and we got lost on the subway and our hotel was a hole in the wall near Chinatown. But it was a great night._

_As a mother, my heart just melted. You should go call her right now._

_If I call her I'll never escape._

_Well send her an e-mail, then, or whatever it is you do. You do SOMETHING, right? Let her know you're alive once in a while?_

_Yes, I send her messages. Leave me alone._

_I will not._

_Then at least change the subject._

_Why? You were telling me about your audition. Did you get to choose your piece? What did it entail?_

_Both. They gave me a piece out of Uncle Vanya that I hadn't read before, and then I did the taste of fear monologue from Macbeth as my prepared one._

_The taste of fear?_

_I have almost forgotten the taste of fears; the time has been, my senses would have cooled to hear a night shriek, and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in it. I have supped full with horrors. Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts cannot once start me. It's the monologue you quoted to me the night we met._

_Is it? I don't recall._

_Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow creeps into this petty place from day by day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing._

_Jeez. I'd forgotten the whole thing—I just had bits and pieces I attributed to different places. Damn that's a good one. It's heartbreaking and beautiful and angry and melancholy all at once. The Bard sure knew his stuff. And you, nice choice, hot damn. I'm just imagining you saying it and I know it's not half as good as it would be in real life. I'd probably need a change of underwear._

_I'm calling._

_1/24/21_

_I'm moving in with you._

_To what do I owe the honor?_

_Snow._

_Snow?_

_Fucking snow. I'm done with it. I quit. I'm done._

_You love Michigan, remember?_

_I take it back. I take it all back. Just give me some fucking sunshine. Please. I'm begging you. Take me away from all this._

_All I hear is “please, I'm begging you, take me.”_

_So yes?_

_You can come out here any time you want. You don't need me._

_I doooo. I'll crash with my two kids in your tiny apartment and soak up sun rent-free for weeks._

_Now you're just being silly._

_Not silly. Crazy. It's called cabin fever._

_Go play in the snow._

_Just for that, I'm not putting out while I crash at your place._

_1/29/21_

_There was a man on the boat today with the most amazing beard I have ever seen._

_Like, ZZ Top? Or what?_

_Not remotely. Imagine you can grow facial hair and you think, how can I use this in my cause to show the world what a complete and total fuck I am?_

_So like...Daario Naharis from ASOIAF?_

_I must not be remembering right. What was that like?_

_Forked and dyed blue._

_No, but you're thinking along the right lines now._

_Was it dyed?_

_No, but his hair was._

_Bleached?_

_His hair or his beard?_

_Was his hair bleached, and his beard wasn't._

_Right, but it doesn't end there._

_Of course not. Was it long? Oh jeez, just tell me already!_

_Long bleached hair. In a man-bun, of course._

_Oh God._

_Beard was like a villain from a Disney film._

_Are you sure he didn't just wander in from a different area?_

_Ha ha, no. It gets better. It was long and dark, thin and oily. The tip went almost down to his nipples._

_Ew!_

_And he had shapes shaved into the sides on his chin. I think they were supposed to be eyes._

_Did you get a picture?_

_I wish._

_What was he like? Asshole, obviously. Kids?_

_No, there with what I can only assume was his girlfriend. She looked about twenty years older than him, but dressed like they were the same age._

_I'm surprised a couple like that even stands out. You must see so many freaks every day._

_Most of the freaks stick to the exciting rides. I get the families and retirees._

_Did you...did you say anything?_

_I did tell him he had a remarkable beard. But he thought it was a compliment._

_Round of applause for Skipper Dan!_

_Don't call me that._

_Sorry. It was funny. Like the guy's beard._

_“Funny” doesn't begin to describe it, trust me._

_2/16/21_

_OMG look at this [IMAGE]_

_A snow fort?_

_Isn't it incredible? Xander and his friend spent four hours on it. I had to make them come inside to warm up._

_Were you out there helping?_

_For a while. At the start and again before I made them come inside the second time. Now I'm in warm dry pajamas._

_Sounds like the best part._

_IT IS! So how's my bff?_

_You're joking._

_Only a little. You write me back at least as much as Alexa does these days, and we NEVER talk on the phone._

_You don't have other friends?_

_Mom friends. I like them a lot, don't get me wrong, but it's completely different._

_Yet you send ME the pictures of your kids._

_Because my kids are 90% of my life and sometimes I just have to share. But sometimes I also have to discuss movies and theater and being single and sex and the harsh realities of life. (Are you even still single? I can't assume these things when I don't write for two weeks.)_

_As a matter of fact, no. I bumped into Jennifer Lawrence at the laundromat and she couldn't keep her hands off me. We drove to Vegas and got married last week._

_See now, I'm pretty sure you're kidding, but I don't know these things. Isn't J-Law already married?_

_I have no idea._

_Well jeez, if you're going to marry somebody, you should at least make sure you're not committing bigamy. She IS. At least, according to wikipedia she is. Oh man, you are so in trouble. I can't believe she didn't tell you! I thought she was cool! I'm sad now. I'm sure you're sadder, though. You must be devastated. I'm so sorry! And I just dropped the news on you like a total bitch. Can you ever forgive me?_

_Ha, that's enough, cut it out._

_Are you going to get an annulment or do you think she'll dump the first husband? I mean if it was me, I'd totally go with you. But then again I wouldn't ask someone to marry me in the first place unless I was legally available. Was she drunk?_

_Okay stop it! Point made._

_I'm not trying to make any point at all, I'm just amusing myself here. If I make you smile, that's just a bonus. So definitely not real, then?_

_I've never even met her._

_Lucky for her husband, eh? ;)_

_[IMAGE]_

_lol, okay, okay, I'll stop. And for the record, I missed you._

_When?_

_When I didn't write for two weeks._

_What were you doing that was so important?_

_Just life. Making valentines for classrooms full of children. Finishing a book I was reading. Hanging out with my mom friends. Baking cookies. What's your excuse?_

_Lost in a fit of melancholy of Shakespearean proportions._

_Dear God. What triggered that?_

_Nothing and everything. You know how it is._

_I don't know, but after six months of talking to you I can guess pretty well._

_A guy I knew a little bit got fired._

_What for?!_

_He did the bambi joke and a tourist bitched out and went to management._

_Bambi? Disney movie bambi?_

_Yep. I don't blame him. When you're about to lose your shit, or you have an older crowd on the boat, or you're just really fucking bored, you bust out one of the edgier jokes. I don't do it because I don't rock the boat, but I've been tempted._

_Rock the boat, lol._

_That was unintentional. Shit. The bad jokes are working their way into my brain. I'm making them when I'm not even working. SAVE ME_

_LOL!_

_You think I'm joking? Does this look like the face of a man who's joking? [IMAGE]_

_I don't know. You could be. I don't doubt you can play crazy very well._

_Fine. Exaggerating slightly. Maybe. No promises._

_Go on, I want to hear about the Bambi joke._

_Cruising down the river: “Hey look, there's Bambi and his mom!” Imitate firing a shotgun. “Well, Bambi, anyway.”_

_I laughed._

_You laughed at that? You must be hard up for entertainment._

_I get a lot of fart jokes at home, does that count?_

_Do you laugh at them?_

_Always._

_I don't know you._

_Prude._

_Prude? Excuse me?_

_You heard me. Farts are funny._

_They're the lowest form of humor._

_Oh, absolutely. But they're still funny._

_I will walk away from the phone._

_Go on then, run back to the new wife. It's not my place to criticize. I mean, maybe you're totally down with bigamy, I don't know._

_[IMAGE]_

_*blows kiss*_

_2/19/21_

_How's your friend?_

_Friend?_

_The one who got fired. For the totally funny Bambi joke._

_Oh, him! Did I say we were friends?_

_So you haven't talked to him since?_

_No. Off my radar, gone forever._

_Into the wild blue yonder, eh? Well how are you, then?_

_You know the answer to that._

_SSDD?_

_Bingo._

_So not lying around in another fit of melancholy? I didn't say it the other day, but sorry the Mouse stole one of your work buddies._

_We weren't close. I don't know why it bothered me so much._

_Because it could have been you? Or part of you wished it WAS?_

_I don't know. Could be, I guess. No. Working this job has killed off most of my pride, but if I got FIRED from this job I'd probably kill myself._

_But then you'd be free!_

_I'll never be free. But being fired? Being told you're not even good enough to tell tourists lame jokes day after day? How do you live with that?_

_Alright there sunshine, that's enough. Tell me something good that's happened to you, instead._

_That's not happening._

_I like to challenge you._

_You like to torture me._

_Oh, you want torture? Give me five minutes._

_No. No. No._

_No real singing. I'm not completely inhumane._

_Don't._

_No one's making you watch it._

_That makes the fact that I'm going to all the sadder._

_[VIDEO]_

_You enjoy doing that far too much, you know?_

_It's fun! It's Pat Benetar! It's dramatic and stupid! Think of it like this: I don't get to act anymore. The closest I can get is stupidly over-the-top lip-synching and playing pretend with my children. And by children I mean Wes, because Xander thinks he's outgrown it unless we're making a movie._

_He makes movies, too?_

_Well, sort of. Hold on. [VIDEO]_

_Not terrible. There's a plot with conflict and resolution. No growth, but you could say that for plenty of movies. Where's the leading lady, though?_

_Behind the camera, of course. Only acceptable place for a mom._

_I see why you lip-synch to torture him._

_Oh no, HE gets the real singing._

_Now I feel lucky._

_Then my mission is accomplished *takes a bow*_

_2/24/21_

_When was the last time you got laid?_

_Approximately a million years ago. You?_

_You should know, you were there._

_Seriously?_

_How often did you think I got some, exactly?_

_I have no idea._

_You never even thought about it?_

_I try not to._

_Aw, are you jealous? You have nothing to be jealous of._

_I'm not jealous. It's just not my business._

_I just made it your business because I have to bitch about not getting laid in six months. Don't you think I would have mentioned it if I did?_

_No, because it's not my business._

_Why do you keep denying that we're friends?_

_Because I'm not a good friend._

_Says who? I think you rock._

_You think I'm a charity project._

_I do NOT! I enjoy you._

_Why?_

_You make me laugh. You're great to vent to. You seem amused when I do or say my really goofy shit. You're talented as hell, and I like being able to talk Shakespeare with you. Movie nights are a blast. Sometimes, yes, you make me feel like I've helped out a little bit, and that's a good feeling, but I'd be writing you even if you were full of sunshine and moonbeams every day because I LIKE YOU. As a person._

_And I was the last person you had sex with. Apparently._

_That too. And it was really good. Granted, it's not going to happen again unless one of us takes an unexpected vacation but there are days when I really enjoy those memories. A lot. So you've got that in your favor too. However since we're obviously not having sex over the phone, you can't really cite it as a motivation for talking to you._

_You still think about it?_

_DAN. I haven't had sex in six months. Who the hell else am I going to think about?_

_Actual movie stars? TV characters? Your kid's karate teacher? I don't know._

_Wesley's karate teacher is like 80 years old. I don't mind an age gap, but I'm gonna pass on that one. TV characters, okay, sometimes. Or um...no, we're not going there._

_Or what?_

_Just...things being done. Not specific people. Scenarios._

_I'm curious._

_You're going to have to keep being curious. I'm not ready to weird you out yet._

_You're kidding._

_It's none of your business, remember? ;) Besides, I think I like you better._

_You're trying to distract me with flattery._

_Will it work?_

_Definitely._

_In that case, I have not forgotten the way it felt when you slammed me into the wall and put your hands up my shirt._

_Which wall?_

_I was thinking of the one right inside your apartment just now, but I'm not picky. They're all good walls._

_You were so surprised in the alley, I thought for a minute you weren't going to respond._

_Oh so you remember it, too!_

_Sometimes. In the shower._

_Oooh, talk to dirty to me more. I want to hear about these showers._

_You could join me in one if you ever came back out west._

_Shower sex is overrated, actually. I've tried it. Hot, but impractical. Put me on my knees instead._

_You just need a bigger shower. Then you could be on your knees in there with no trouble._

_Getting pounded by the water, too? I'd be all wet and slippery...Ha. Sounds like a good investment. I'd look into it if I had anyone around to shower with._

_Is that an invitation?_

_I'm not rebuilding my bathroom for you. If you want to come visit, we're sticking with the bed._

_It's, what, a five hour trip? I can do that in a weekend._

_Are you serious?_

_No, but I wish I was._

_I know this is weird because we're friends now, but part of me still wants to fuck you._

_Which part?_

_Ha, ha. All the ones that count._

_Why did you have to put that shower image in my head?_

_So you have something to think about later. Obviously. I'm nice like that._

_Thanks._

_Thank you for not getting all weird on me perving on you._

_I'm nice too._

_2/25/21_

_Are we cool with just pretending yesterday never happened?_

_No. But I can not mention it again if you'd like._

_Bless your heart. I am so embarrassed._

_Yeah, I'd be embarrassed for sexting the loser tour guide from last summer, too._

_Oh stop that._

_Stop what?_

_YOU are not an embarrassment. I just don't want to get weird on you._

_You were supposed to be a one-night-stand. The fact that we're friends now is the weird part._

_Aw, you admitted we're friends! <3 <3 <3_

_3/2/21_

_Okay I heard this joke today and I'm trying to figure out if you could sell it._

_Don't do this._

_Are you ready?_

_Sharon, no._

_Why do chicken coops only have two doors?_

_I'm begging you._

_If they had four, they'd be chicken sedans! Ba-dum-chhhh._

_Shoot me._

_So could you?_

_Could I what?_

_Sell it? I bet you could._

_Yes. But I'd die a little more inside._

_Good thing you don't have to, then. Let's preserve what little there is of you remaining._

_Thanks. I had a couple with no less than eight kids on the boat today. They spent the whole time screaming at them._

_Oy._

_I wanted to jump overboard. But I know it's not deep enough to drown in._

_Again, let's keep what's left of you alive, eh?_

_I'm trying. But you deal with two kids every day. Imagine eight. At Disneyland. Crying. Laughing. Standing on the seats. Leaning over the edge. Trying to steal the skipper's hat._

_I am so sorry. You need a movie night?_

_Immediately._

_Much Ado? I have it on DVD._

_I don't. Godfather Part II?_

_Goodie, let's watch Fredo die._

_On a boat. Perfect. I can imagine it's me._

_3/10/21_

_I tripped on a sidewalk crack while I was out jogging._

_Are you okay?_

_Fine. Skinned my palm. But it reminded me of Angels. One night a few weeks into the run, my shoe got caught on a loose nail on stage. I went over flat on my face and busted my lip. There was blood everywhere._

_Shit! That's bad news. Only time I ever split my lip, it swelled up like crazy but didn't bleed much. Did you need stitches? What happened?_

_You know what happened._

_No I don't!_

_You know the show must go on, don't you?_

_Ohhh. Yes._

_You don't break character in front of a paying audience and go shit, sorry, give me a minute here._

_No, you're right, you can't. But...what DID you do?_

_Got up, put my hand to my face, swore in character, looked at all the blood, and laughed._

_In character?_

_Is there any other way?_

_Not for you :)_

_Alan was great too, he just went with it. Horrified Joe going “are you okay?” and hunting all over for a tissue. Only of course there weren't any because they weren't required for the set, so I'm standing there as Louis mopping up my own blood with my own hand and he's running around as Joe trying to find a damn kleenex that should exist but doesn't, and we're trying to make it all look planned and natural and not derail the entire fucking scene._

_Lol! Omg what did you do in the end?_

_He said, you really need to go shopping and I said, got that right! Then I just pulled my shirt off, said I hated it anyway, and pressed THAT on my mouth. He fussed over me for a minute and I told him I was fine._

_Wow._

_And you know? Everyone said it was one of our best performances. We kept character and added depth to them. Our director asked if we could bust my face open every night._

_I hope you said no!_

_He was joking. It wouldn't have been the same if we'd planned it._

_So is this a metaphor? You've realized the best things in life are the ones you don't plan?_

_Funny. I briefly remembered a time when I did well at something, that's all._

_You're amazing._

_Was._

_Still are. Anyway I'm really touched you shared it with me. It's a good story :)_

_I just wanted to relive it for a little longer._

_Why did you move to LA? It sounds like you were kicking ass in New York. Wouldn't you have had a better shot at becoming a star if you'd stayed there?_

_Maybe. No, probably not. I was stuck in the small-time stuff, that's where all my contacts were. I was treading the boards, but they were tiny boards. I felt like I wasn't going anywhere. At the time, I thought a fresh start would be smarter._

_And that's why you left?_

_One of many reasons._

_What were the others?_

_For one thing, I really didn't like NYC._

_That's fair. What else?_

_I liked the idea of being closer to home, I guess. And what kid doesn't dream about Hollywood above all else? In my dumb little mind it was where I had to be._

_Is that it?_

_No. There was Lucy, too._

_Oooh, this sounds good. Girlfriend?_

_Sous chef. We'd been dating a few months. I'd fallen hard. She got a job offer at a restaurant in Anaheim, and was going to take it. It was the last little push I needed._

_Oof. How long did it last after you moved?_

_Two years._

_Well that's not too shabby. Sorry it didn't work out, though._

_It's fine. I was pretty stupid to think that it would._

_Do you blame her?_

_What, for where I am now?_

_Yeah._

_No. All she did was invite me to come along, because she cared about me. And she believed in me. Just like everyone else. Even when it ended, she was convinced I was going to be a star._

_She sounds nice. I like her best out of all your exes._

_You don't know any of my exes._

_That's why I like this one the best._

_3/15/21_

_Spring is coming! I know that means nothing to you but the sun is shining and most of the snow has melted and I saw a crocus poking up!_

_I'm so happy for you._

_Can you at least try to sound like you mean it?_

_I'm so happy for you :D_

_Ha._

_It's text. What do you want from me?_

_Joy that spring is here! Exclamation points! Dancing in the streets!_

_But I don't do those things._

_I've seen you use exclamation points. But okay, tell me some stories then. Something funny from work. A new detail about an old show. Tell me you sat outside and felt the breeze on your face, like I did this afternoon._

_I found my favorite taco truck on my way home tonight. Ever had a walking taco from a real LA food truck?_

_No but now I want one. Screw the plans I had for dinner for the week, we're making tacos! They won't be as good as what you had, but I can live with that. What else you got?_

_Tortilla chips and guac._

_No I mean what other things do you have to be happy about. I felt real sunshine on my face, without a wind so cold it hurt to be out!_

_I threw three passengers overboard and ran them down in my boat._

_LOL. In a fantasy?_

_It was very therapeutic._

_I'm glad you're finding ways to cope. What'd they do?_

_Generally being assholes, not paying attention at all. Why even go on the damn ride if you're going to talk or play on your phone through the entire thing?_

_They didn't even groan?_

_They didn't listen to a word. It's stupid to be insulted when I hate the jokes too, but shit._

_Can I come hit them?_

_Be my guest. You'll have to find them, but by all means._

_3/27/21_

_How are you doing?_

_SSDD ;) You?_

_Always. But today wasn't too bad. I went on autopilot, so it was boring but all blended together._

_It's sad that's how you describe a good day, but if you're happy, I'm happy._

_Something occurred to me yesterday._

_Oh?_

_You've never told me what shows YOU were in._

_But I tell you everything! Are you sure?_

_You don't, but I'm pretty sure._

_I know I've mentioned a few, like R &J._

_I don't even know who you were in that._

_The Apothecary. Not one of my starring roles. And then background character for crowd scenes, of course. They used a swing-era style setting, and for the party scene where they meet I had to wear a really slutty dress—I mean, I couldn't even wear a bra with it, we had to use tape to keep it decent—and dance with a guy who did nothing but stare at me._

_I don't blame him._

_He could have at least tried to make conversation._

_Peas and carrots?_

_Yeah, yeah, I see your point. Anyway, I didn't care for it. Speaking of tiny roles, I ran the spotlights for The Music Man with Alexa our senior year, and I think I did some sort of backstage work for Brigadoon. We also had a drama CLASS senior year, where each class directed and produced their own show. I was Miep in The Diary of Ann Frank, but I was also in charge of all props, most of the sound, and half the set building. There was a scene in Act Two where everyone ate cake, so every night after a dress rehearsal or performance I'd go home and make a crappy 40s-style cake. I remember puttering around my parents' kitchen at like 11:00, being the only one awake :)_

_I wish I'd had you working on some of our shows._

_My talent is mediocre, but I put in the work and I put in the love. Same with music. Same with SCHOOL, really. I'm smart but not brilliant. And I'm okay with that. Brilliant people never seem very happy._

_That's targeted at me, isn't it._

_It is emphatically not. Even though you ARE massively talented and not very happy. Anyway I had a lot of fun with it. I was stage manager for The Foreigner, and stagehand for The Diviners. I had a decent role in The Tavern my freshman year, which was farcical and ridiculous but so fun. I got to scream a lot._

_The Foreigner is clever. I'll have to look the others up._

_We almost did the female Odd Couple instead of Ann Frank. I would have been...shit, I can't remember female Felix's name. Fiona? Anyway. My one lead role was in The Rainmaker._

_Katherine Hepburn. You were Katherine Hepburn?_

_No, I was Lizzie. But yes, the Hepburn role ;) There is one part I still think about and wish I could do differently, but overall I think it was a good show. I was the only woman in the whole show, and I was one of the two leads. I'm still proud of that. My first kiss was a stage kiss._

_So was mine._

_Seriously!?_

_Why are you surprised?_

_Because you're hot and talented! Why weren't girls all over you?_

_How am I supposed to answer that?_

_Was it in R &J?_

_Now how did you know that?_

_Musicals and comedies are mostly bend-the-back stage kisses, they don't require actual mouths to touch. And Puck doesn't get a lot of action. But Romeo has a lot of intimate scenes. The little gray cells, Hastings. I did it all right here. *twirls mustache* Was it Joy?_

_No, Cheryl. She was sweet. A year ahead of us. Shakespeare was like a foreign language to her, but she had a nice voice, pretty face, and could cry on cue._

_So you carried the show._

_No, the director and I worked with her a lot and got a decent performance out of her._

_Shut up, you stole the show ;)_

_I bet you were great in The Rainmaker._

_Great? I don't know about great. I never had the talent you do, and I have just enough talent to know it. I'm okay with that, you don't have to flatter me._

_And just because I have talent, you figure I'm a snob who wouldn't appreciate what you can do. We read scenes together, remember? You're not bad._

_Stop, you're making me blush!_

_Sarcasm doesn't suit you._

_I'm not being sarcastic._

_That makes me strangely happy._

_Why are you asking me about all this, anyway?_

_Just making conversation. It doesn't seem fair that you know every show I've ever been in, and I didn't know a single one of yours._

_You know my kids' names. That's way more important, trust me._

_What about college?_

_Picnic and The Rimers of Eldritch. I probably would have gotten more roles, but after that I met Marty._

_Why would that stop you? Did he disapprove or something?_

_No, he wasn't a possessive asshole or anything :P Jeez, I don't think I ever even told you, we didn't go to the same school._

_You didn't?_

_No, he went to the big school an hour south of me. His HS best friend was in drama with me and introduced us. Once we started dating I was hardly on campus anymore. He wasn't allowed a car on campus, and all my classes were over by lunchtime, so I'd drive down there practically every day. Ah, to be young and stupid and in love._

_Lots of sex?_

_SO MUCH. But I was still doing theater until he got sick._

_How sick are we talking?_

_It was bad. We thought it was meningitis at first, but I guess it was just some infection that got out of control. Anyway he was in the hospital for a few days and stuck in bed at his mom's house for weeks. He must have dropped fifteen pounds. Scared the shit out of me. I had an audition scheduled the night he was hospitalized and I said fuck it. I knew in the back of my mind I was making some sort of life choice...but like I said, I was never going to be great. I just enjoyed it. My plan was always to read and write and have a family._

_And have sex?_

_Hey, 3/4 ain't bad. Now let me go back and ask, how was the kiss?_

_The kiss?_

_Cheryl. Juliet. The first time?_

_I was too into the role to notice until afterward. Romeo enjoyed it. He wanted more._

_Romeo? Really?_

_We weren't exactly making out._

_No, that came later, with the horses speech!_

_I don't remember any horses._

_I know, I'm screwing it up. Hold on, googling it. STEEDS! Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds._

_Oh THAT speech._

_It's pretty hot stuff. Hurry up and be night already so I can have sex!!! You know, I think she really loved him. I usually dismiss it as stupid teenagers throwing away their lives for someone they hardly know...in fact, I always had this idea to write a one-act in which they meet up in the afterlife and realize they don't even like each other. But being young and stupid and blinded by lust doesn't mean she couldn't have been in love, either. I really like that line about making him into little stars._

_I played it as love. It's easy to be a cynic, but it's not easy to throw your whole life aside for someone, and that's what Romeo did. He didn't care about his family's disapproval, he lost his best friend to the idiocy and didn't give up on her, he killed for her, he cried for her, and at the end of the day he would rather die than be without her._

_As someone who's lost their husband, that's kind of dumb._

_For such an optimist, that's pretty cold._

_I just mean...sometimes it's harder to go on without them. But if you give up, then that's it._

_And if you don't give up, the play doesn't have an ending._

_West Side Story still had an ending._

_Tony still died._

_True...and anyway, I'm thinking like a mother, not a lovesick teenager. If Marty had died when I was 20, maybe I'd have more sympathy for R &J. Or maybe I just need to see your production of it. I'd be all in tears. “Oh poor Romeo! That's so heartbreaking!”_

_Okay, your turn._

_Huh?_

_Your first kiss. In The Rainmaker._

_I...I don't remember it, either. Closed-mouth, longish, soft and warm. Ha, his name was Dan, I just remembered that._

_Did you like him?_

_Not really. We got along fine for the show, but beyond that we didn't hang out. There certainly wasn't any real chemistry. Listen, I'm enjoying this but it's super late here._

_11:00 is super late?_

_Yes! If I'm not talking to you or watching a movie, I'm in bed by ten. I kind of like my eight hours._

_I'll let you go get some sleep, then._

_I'm sorry. I know it's barely 8:00 for you, but I'm beat._

_I get it. Sleep well._

_You too._

_4/3/21_

_Did you do Easter as a kid?_

_You say “do Easter” and I think “What holiday is Bond going to fuck next?”_

_LOL! Dying eggs and hunting for chocolate bunnies and stuff._

_Oh, that. I got an Easter basket full of chocolate eggs when I woke up._

_You didn't have to hunt for them? Where's the fun in that?_

_When I was about seven or eight Mom decided we needed to go to church for the holidays. So for a few years I got dragged there before I got my Easter basket._

_Yeah, we did that scene, too. Crack of dawn Easter services, too. Do you have tomorrow off?_

_No. I'm kind of hoping if I work every other holiday, I'll get one of the good ones off again later this year._

_Sounds like a reasonable plan._

_You do the egg hunts for Xander and Wesley?_

_We do them at my parents' house._

_You see them a lot, don't you._

_They're only about an hour away, they're wonderful, and since I'm a single mom I really appreciate having other adults on call to help out._

_Yeah, we saw a lot of my grandparents when I was a kid, too._

_Are you close?_

_They're both gone now, but I guess you could say we were._

_Aw, I'm sorry._

_It's fine, it's been a while._

_Well, I just wanted to check in. Anything interesting to report?_

_I'm at 63,925._

_Is this an accurate tally or an estimate?_

_Low-end estimate._

_But you're counting now, aren't you. Why? Are you throwing a big fuck-you party when you hit 100,000?_

_I don't know WHAT I'll do when I hit that. Go home and drink myself to death?_

_Ha ha not funny. How has it been?_

_Still laughing! :D_

_Fake laughing._

_Yep. But I'm a great salesman._

_Attention must be paid._

_Attention is never paid. What are the kids up to lately?_

_Nothing too exciting. Xander wants his own youtube channel to publish his videos. And now he's after me for a better phone._

_You didn't give him one for Christmas? Worst mom ever._

_Right here, buddy. [IMAGE]_

_I feel loved. Thank you._

_:P_

_And Wesley?_

_Still throws things when he's mad. I wish those two would stop fighting. They love each other, dammit!_

_It's what brothers do._

_Do you HAVE a brother? I can't believe I don't know that._

_I don't. Just me. But Kevin and Max both did, so I have some idea._

_Yeah, yeah. I know you're right. But it's exhausting as a mom._

_I can only imagine._

_Spring break is next week. Please pray for me._

_Is it just one week?_

_One week of being trapped indoors with two crazy boys who keep yelling at each other and farting on each other and throwing things, and no time to clean up the mess._

_Sounds like a long week._

_I'll make it. But don't be surprised if I call you up drunk by the end of the week._

_Now I have something to look forward to._

_4/9/21_

_I never got my drunk call. I'm strangely disappointed._

_Don't give up yet. I still have two days till they're back in school, and my patience is THIN. If not for Easter and the weather being nice enough to play outside, I would have snapped days ago. I love them, I do. I love reading with them and playing with them and talking to them. I just hate cleaning up after them, and trying to persuade them to come on a walk or a bike ride so I can get some fucking exercise and fresh air._

_Want to watch a movie tonight?_

_I want a walk! I want human contact! I want a house that's not so messy it stresses me out!_

_I can't give you any of those things._

_You're giving me one of them right now :) I'm sorry my lack of drunkenness disappoints you, though._

_I can handle it. What do you do when you're drunk, exactly?_

_Hit on people and then fall asleep._

_Damn. I would have enjoyed that._

_I can hit on you anyway?_

_No, no, it wouldn't be the same._

_I can almost hear your melodramatic sigh. Shouldn't it count more if I'm sober?_

_Now it's solicited._

_If you say so. Tell me about your day?_

_Anything but that._

_I've heard about all your shows, though. And if I have to wait another hour until the kids are asleep, I might lose it._

_I doubt it. You might snap for a minute, but you've got the end in sight. And you're a lot saner to start with than most people I know._

_Most people you know, eh?_

_Me._

_Ha! No, you're right. My idea of snapping is shouting for a minute and having to down a shot of Hennessy, then calming back down and apologizing._

_Doesn't sound so bad._

_I'd still rather not. So tell me about your day? Not the work part, if that helps. How do you wake up in the morning? How do you get to work? Disney's not exactly right across the street from Hollywood._

_I wake up to the sound of my alarm at six o'clock, and wish I was dead. I haul myself out of bed, shave, brush my teeth, comb my hair. Make myself eat something. This exciting enough for you?_

_Gripping. Please continue._

_I leave before seven because you never know how traffic is going to be, and spend about an hour on the highway listening to the news and music._

_Lots of Queen?_

_Yeah, but I have to change it up sometimes. It's two hours or more every day._

_I didn't even know you had a car._

_I bought a used Toyota when I moved out here. It's still running._

_God bless foreign cars. I love my little Ford, though. So how bad is the commute?_

_It varies a lot. Not relaxing, how about that._

_I think I'd die from fear if I had to drive out there._

_Not much experience driving in big cities?_

_Not ones that big. I grew up in a small town. The fact that I can get around Lansing is a testament to my abilities. And let's be honest here, my abilities are NOT that great. No one likes riding with me._

_Is it better or worse than your singing?_

_That's a really tough question. Neither has ever killed anybody, but both are pretty bad. Singing is probably worse. Anyway, tell me about the rest of your day._

_That's it._

_That can't be it. You weren't even to work yet when you left off._

_Fine. I park and go in and put on my costume. You said I can leave out work. I drive back home in traffic that's usually worse. Go for a run, go to the laundromat, go buy food—usually not all the same day, though it depends. Watch TV or read, take a shower, go the fuck to bed._

_It sounds delightful. And I do feel calmer. I just needed some adult conversation, I guess._

_This is adult conversation to you?_

_Yes. What color is your car?_

_Beige._

_Does it have a name? Mine's the Sharonbus III._

_III? What happened to I and II?_

_I told you I was a bad driver._

_…_

_lol, only the first one got totaled, and that wasn't really my fault. Most of my cars are old when I get them, so they don't last that long._

_You meant that to be reassuring?_

_Don't worry, you won't be trapped in a car with me any time in the foreseeable future._

_I'm more worried for you and the kids._

_Haven't killed us yet! :D So how are you doing, really?_

_You don't have to constantly check up on me, you know._

_Well, I worry. I try NOT to check-up on you, believe it or not. I don't want to be annoying or overbearing._

_You're not._

_Thanks *cheek kiss* I'm glad I met you. You know that, right?_

_I am, too._

_Congratulations, you got me through the remainder of the evening! Now I'm going to have ONE drink and put on a comedy. Do you have Some Like it Hot?_

_Do fish swim?_

_You really do have great taste._


	3. Chapter 3

Eight months after my family vacation to Disneyland, I was going about my life as usual. I'd spent the entire morning cleaning, and the house was almost back to its pre-spring-break status as a result. I was just headed out to pick up some groceries, after which I hoped to squeeze in a walk before picking the kids up from school. My phone chirped to indicate a message, but I didn't pick it up to look until I got stuck at a long red light.

_I really hate my life, Sharon_. 

Dan. A fist clenched around my heart as I read the words, and I immediately started trying to think of what I could write back to help him. I couldn't think of anything I hadn't said plenty of times before, so at the next light I simply typed in _What can I do?_

I made it to Kroger before the phone chirped again. _I don't think there's anything anyone can do._

Uh-oh, I didn't like that sound of that. _What happened?_

_Nothing. I just hate it. Every day I have to spend at that damn job makes me want to shoot myself._

I typed back rapidly, still sitting in the car. _You should quit, then._

 _And do what?_ I could almost hear his voice as I read it. Almost hear the bleakness; the flat, helpless tone.

_Anything. Just get the hell out and don't look back._

_You know it's not that easy._

_It's not that easy because you're hung up on your past. You can do it. I believe in you. Go back to Oregon. Come here and stay with me for a while._

_There's nothing for me there._

I was still concocting a response when another text came in from him. _There's nothing for me here, either._

_Stop that_. My fingers flew, hitting wrong keys that I didn't bother to correct. _You're scaring me._

_What do you have to be scared about?_

Still sitting in the car, I chewed my lip _._ I started typing, backspaced, started again. Finally, I hit the call button instead. 

“Yeah?” he answered glumly right before it would have gone to voice mail.

“I care about you, you asshole,” I angrily. “Stop talking like it's Doomsday and start talking with me about what we're going to do to fix it.”

“If it was fixable, I would have fixed it already.” He sounded resigned, and very tired. “All I have to look forward to is a lifetime on the Jungle Cruise.”

“You could always work retail.”

“That thought makes me want to slit my wrists even more.”

“Stop _talking_ like that!” Anxiety was creeping into my voice, straining it. “You make me think you're serious!”

“Maybe I am serious.” He laughed, and the sound was bitter enough to make me ill. “Then again maybe it's just a plea for attention. I mean, I am an actor. Or I _was_.”

“This isn't a joke!” I hissed angrily.

“Are you going to tell me I have so much to live for?” Again, his flat tone clutched icy hands around my heart.

“ _Yes!_ ” I could feel tears brewing and forced them back. “You are so amazing, and talented, and, and kind, and sexy, and funny, and _smart_...”

“And none of that matters to anyone but you. Even if you're right, and I've got talent, no one is ever going to see it. To the rest of the world, I'm just a forgettable ten minutes of their life.”

My voice had gotten very small. “Isn't it enough that it matters to _me_?”

“If my crowning victory in life is making a small impression on some girl I banged six months back, I hardly think that's an endorsement.”

I shrunk in on myself, feeling as though I'd been slapped. “Eight months,” I whispered into the phone, blinking back tears. “It was eight months ago.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. “You're crying,” he said after a while. It was a cold, angry observation. “I made you cry. Are you still going to try and tell me how amazing I am, how much I _matter_?”

I gave up on keeping the tears a secret; cat was out of the bag. “Yes,” I choked out, and sniffled. “Dan, talk to me. Tell me what you're really thinking.”

“Why, so you can try to talk me out of it?”

“Oh, God.” The words jerked out of me as if they were on a string. “No. No, no. Dan, you _can't_.”

“Can't what?” He let me squirm for a minute, then correctly explained my reluctance to answer. “Oh, you don't want to say it because then you'll feel like you're the one who put the idea in my head.”

“You're being mean. Don't try to drive me away, I'm not stupid.”

He ignored me. “I'll save you the trouble. No, no, don't kill yourself, I'll be sad for two whole days, and this is all about me!”

That stung, too. But I knew what he was doing. “I am _not_ being selfish.”

“Really.” Back to flat, dead tones. “Why do you want to keep me around, then, if not for yourself? I'm not enjoying life. Every day I look around and see everywhere I've failed. I'm a miserable, sad excuse for a man, and I hate watching myself be like this. It's like watching a traffic accident in slow motion. You know what's going to happen, but you can't do anything to make the car turn in time. I just want out.”

“That's just giving up! You have good days too, I know you have good days. And if you just fucking _hang on_ , there will be more of them. If you give up, it won't ever get better.”

“At this point, I don't care.”

The call ended.

I called him right back, and sagged with relief when he picked up. “Don't you fucking hang up on me. Dan, Dan, don't do it. You wrote me. That means deep down, you want help. If you didn't think there was anything I can do, why did you write?” He didn't have a quick answer to that, thank God. I plowed ahead. “Just, please. Stay on the line with me. Don't go.”

He was silent a while. “Eventually, one or the other of us is going to have to hang up.”

I gave a muted, wordless scream of frustration and fear. “I'm coming out there.”

“You're what?” There, at least that had injected a little surprise into his voice. That was something.

“I'm coming out there,” I repeated in a tone that I hoped left no room for argument. “I am going to find a babysitter and book a plane ticket, and I am going to turn up on your damn doorstep. Promise me you'll be there when I do.”

He didn't say anything. “Dan?”

“Yeah, still here.”

“Good. Now, I'm serious. I'm going to get off the phone for a few minutes so I can take care of things, and then I'm going to call you back and stay on the phone with you until my flight leaves. And when I get to LA, you're going to be there waiting for me, right?”

Again, he didn't say anything. “ _Please_ , Dan.” I was begging. I didn't care.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you,” I told him with feeling. “It'll be okay. Just hang in there. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” he murmured again, and hung up.

I spent the next hour frantically making phone calls, arranging for a friend to pick up the boys from school, and for my parents to come down and stay with them for the weekend. I booked a flight that left at five o'clock, even though it had a two-hour layover and would keep me trapped in a cramped airplane seat for hours. I threw a few clothes and toiletries into an old backpack, used the bathroom, and called him back while I was driving to the airport. 

“I wrote because I wanted you to _understand_ ,” he said plaintively.

“Yeah, well, you're stuck with me now.”

“Are you really on your way?”  
“You thought I'd lie to you?”

“It just seems a little extreme.”

“You were talking about ending your life. I'm not the extreme one here.”

He was silent again. I was starting to suspect there'd be a lot of this painful silences over the next few hours, but at least he was still on the phone with me.

“So where are you? Is it your day off?” If he didn't want to talk about the real issue, I could at least keep him talking.

“Yeah. I'm at home.”

“Well, put on a movie or something. I can't watch it with you, but you can describe it to me.”

“...Nah.”

If this hadn't been so serious, I would have rolled my eyes and sighed in exasperation. “Well you must be doing _something_. Or are you literally just sitting here staring at the wall?”

“Staring out the window.”

His window had a view of the Hollywood sign. Like he needed any reminding? “Shut the damn window.” He sighed, but I thought I heard movement. “Okay, what are you doing now?”

“Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan. You don't have to do this.”

“I don't want you to die.”

“I'm so tired. Of everything.”

“I know, sweetie.” I didn't even notice what I'd called him until the words were out. I was far more focused on fighting off tears of sympathy. “But it'll get better.”

“How?” There was no hope in the way he said that. I wanted to be there already so I could hug him.

“Because we'll find you something to look forward to.” I thought for a minute. “Maybe you're not meant to be a movie star. Maybe you're supposed to be on the boards winning Tonys instead.”

“Maybe,” he agreed without any real enthusiasm. “But I'm scared to try. I'd have to start all over again.”

“There are worse things.”

He made a grunt of disbelief. “And if I fail at that, too?”

“Stop thinking of yourself as a failure. Thirty-six is not that old, you know.”

“It wouldn't be that old if I was _going_ anywhere, but I've been spinning my wheels for a decade. Stop trying to be optimistic.”

“I can't help it.”

“I'm a _failure_ , okay?” He sounded angry, but at least that was an emotion. “I thought I'd be winning fucking Oscars right now, how delusional does that sound from the guy who shows off mechanical snakes for a living? Put it on my tombstone: Dan Douglas, never amounted to anything. Or hell, just put “The back side of water” on there. I've said it so many times it pretty much defines me.”

“It does _not_! There is so much more to you.”

“There really isn't.”

“You're just saying that because you're depressed. We need to get you thinking about something else. Tell me...tell me about your parents.”

“My mom.”

“What about her?”

“Not parents. Mom.”

“Ah. What happened to your dad, then?”

“Never knew him. He was a cheating asshole, and Mom said she'd rather raise a kid on her own than deal with him a minute longer.”

“Jeez. Your mom sounds terrifying. Awesome, but terrifying.”

“Nah, she's sweet. She just knows her limits.”

“So she didn't, like, smack you up for getting a C in school?”

“Wouldn't know.”

“Aw come on, really? You were _that_ kid? I bet you were salutatorian, too, weren't you?”

“Not even close.” For just a second there, his voice lost its flatness. But it didn't last. “I spent way too much time on theater and not enough time studying. Solid B student.”

I knew better than to pursue to the topic of theater right now. It was what he loved, but it was also—in his mind, at least—his greatest failure.

“Me too!” I said instead. “Well, As and Bs. I spent as much time on band as I did on theater, and I suck at math, so I was never going to get a four-point. So tell me why you never mentioned, in all my time bitching about being a single mom, that you grew up _with a single mom_?”

“I never thought of it. No, really. Most of the people I spend any time talking with knew my family.” He sounded more resigned to a conversation than actually enthused, but I'd take it.

“So did you know your dad at _all_?”

“I know his name, I know how they met, how long they dated, and what he did.”

“And?”

“And what? No, I never wanted to look him up. Fuck that guy.”

“But you don't know the whole story! What if he always regretted what he did, and not being a part of your life?”

“He couldn't. He never even knew I existed. Look, I don't care about Frank Leone. He's not my dad, he's never been my _dad_. Even if I _was_ curious, I respect my mom too much to question her judgment on something like that. It was always fine with just the two of us.”

I kept him on the line while I checked in at the airport, and hung up only briefly to go through security. I got him to tell me more about his mom, and growing up in Medford. When he mentioned suicide again I pointed out, gently, that his mom might not be a big fan of that idea. He told me she was married now, and that he never visited anyway because he didn't want her to see what a mess he'd made of his life. I told him that, as a mother, I respectfully disagreed with that choice.

I told him more about my writing, and how I couldn't face the idea of doing it under pressure, or making changes in something just to sell a book. I was lucky I didn't mind desk jobs, and even luckier that I had the circumstances that allowed me to only work part-time here and there. I told him about how and when I'd left my old company to stay home with the kids. He was never really animated during the conversation, but he asked occasional questions and stayed on the line.

He wasn't getting any better. We'd talked on the phone plenty of times over the past months; mostly while we were watching movies, sometimes to discuss theater or politics. I'd heard him down before, and thoughtful, and bitter. I hadn't heard him like _this._

I hated that I had to get off the phone, but we were boarding. I made him promise again to still be there when I reached Chicago to change planes.

Since there wasn't anything else I could do on the flight, I tried not to worry. I failed miserably at that. Instead, I tried to read a book in the cramped little seat, and wound up giving myself motion sickness. I sat back in my seat and closed my eyes, realizing I hadn't eaten anything in hours and praying that the headache would pass. The only good thing about the pain was that it prevented me from thinking too much.

I made it to Chicago, and staggered out into the terminal, torn between stretching my legs and lying down on the floor somewhere. I made myself keep walking, and pulled my phone back out of my purse. “Hi again,” he answered the call.

Something in my heart unclenched just the slightest bit, and I let him hear my smile. “Hi, yourself. I'm in Chicago. Headed to terminal B, where in a few hours I'll catch a plane that'll take me to you. It should be around midnight your time.”

“You don't have to do this, you know. I'm fine.”

“You sound like a broken record. And you're _not_ fine.”

“I'll be okay.”

“Great. Then when I get there, you can keep me on my knees until the crack of dawn. I already paid for the ticket, so might as well have some fun with it.”

He knew as well as I did that wasn't going to happen. I'd just been hoping that it'd make him laugh. It didn't.

“Tell me what you're thinking,” I pleaded. “Really. I can take it. Just talk to me. I'd rather know.”

There was another unpleasant silence. “Thinking about places to do it,” he muttered at last.

I stopped walking to squeeze my eyes shut and pull in a long, shuddering breath. “Such as?”

“My boat.”

“Okay first, _no_ ,” I told him. “Just...you can't. Wait for me.”

“Why, you want to be there for it? Well, I always wanted an audience.”

“I am going to hold you until you cry on my shoulder, and then I'm going to pack your bags and drag you home with me. Alive.”

He made a dismissive sound. “You don't want me hanging around your nice little house and family, sulking in the corner and casting a pall over everything.”

“Yes, I do,” I said fiercely, and blinked back tears. “I know you wouldn't stay there. There's nothing for you to do in East Lansing, Michigan. But it'd be nice...for a little while.”

“What would you tell your kids?”

“Well, I'd start by saying 'Kids, this is Dan. Dan, this is Xander and Wesley.'”

“Ha. You know what I mean.”

“I'd tell them you need some place to stay for a while. They're kids, they'll accept that.”

“I am not imposing on you and your kids.”

“And _I_ am not going to make it all the way to LA only to find your body,” I shot back. “And don't you even _think_ about doing it at work. You hate that fucking boat.”

“Not to mention all the kids I'd scar for life.”

“Right. Not that it matters, though, because you won't. Right?”

Long silence. “Right.”

I sighed. “So what are you doing now?”

“Before you called I was lying on my bed, reading on my phone.”

I didn't ask him what he'd been reading. I had a bad feeling I already knew. “Isn't there someone else you can talk to? While I'm on the plane, I mean. You have friends.”

“Not ones I can talk to.”

That was...that was really sad. “Then let them talk. Just do _something_. Eat something. Take a nap. Read. Listen to some music. Please.”

He didn't say anything. I went back to talking at him, pouring out my life story in an attempt to keep him engaged with the world. He'd occasionally interject a question or story of his own, and I latched onto those desperately. I'd been worried when I abruptly took off from home, but now I was genuinely scared I'd never see him again.

It occurred to me to wonder when, exactly, I'd thought I _would_ see him again. One night, and then eight months of texting and phone calls. There had never been any serious discussion of a visit, of seeing each other in person again. We had never discussed the relationship. It just _was_. If asked, I'd have described him as my friend, even though there was still a lot of carnal memories attached to that friendship. I might even have said that I loved him, the way I loved anyone important in my life.

I had never realized that the idea of not seeing him again would grip me like a vice and jerk all the air out of me.

He told me he needed to use the bathroom, and even though I suspected it was an excuse to get off the phone, I couldn't really argue. After half an hour went by without hearing back from him, I hit redial on my phone. This time, there was no answer.

I had worked myself almost up into a panic when it chirped at me. Oh, thank God. He'd texted. He was alright.

_Sorry. I don't feel like talking. I'm re-reading Hamlet._

_Not a very uplifting choice,_ I wrote back, _but thanks for taking my advice._

 _O, that this too too solid flesh would melt, thaw, and resolve itself into dew,_ he responded. _Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd his canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, seem to me all the uses of this world!_

Oh Christ, that _was_ Hamlet. It was a little too close to home, tonight. _That's not quite what I was going for_ , I texted cautiously.

_No, but it's perfect. I bet I could knock it out of the park right now._

_I bet you could, too. Great art comes from suffering, right? So think about it, you're probably way better now than you were ten years ago. You should give it another shot._

He took a long time writing back. _I don't have the stomach for it anymore._

_Please call me._

Another five minutes went by. _Pass. I don't want to hear you cry again._

_Don't give up, dammit!_

Ten minutes went by. _Are you just reading? Hamlet didn't give up. Whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of fate, or take action against a sea of troubles...he took action._

 _To take up arms,_ he corrected me. At least that got a reaction.

_I was close,_ I defended myself. _I don't have the book right in front of me like some people._

He didn't write back.

_What's your address?_ I wrote after a few minutes. _I'm going to need it pretty soon._

I had a chance to write my parents with an update and check in on my kids before I got another message, but it _was_ an address. I plugged it into the map app on my phone, and the location matched my memory. _Thanks. Still reading?_

No answer.

_Dan, if you don't write me back, I am going to call and call until you pick up._

_Yeah._

I wrote to pester him every few minutes after that. I knew it'd be annoying as hell if he was really trying to read, but I wasn't taking any chances. I tried calling him again at one point, as well. He didn't answer, and I wrote to tell him I wanted to hear his voice. He said I must have heard enough of it by now, given the amount of time we'd spent on the phone. I asked him stupid, pointless questions. Sometimes he even answered them with more than one word.

Eventually I had to board the plane. I sat there staring blankly at the seat in front of me, and let the tears slip down my cheeks. I was losing him, and I didn't know what else I could do to stop it. I kept thinking about the day I got the call that my husband was dead. It had felt like a black pit had opened up beneath my feet, and I just knew I was standing on the edge of that same pit right now.

What a time to realize I was in love.

Well, no, that was an exaggeration. I'd known it for months, if I was really honest with myself. You don't text someone regularly, look forward to hearing their voice on the phone, use a vibrator while losing yourself in memories of what they felt like against you, and _not_ have some pretty serious feelings for them. I could delude myself into thinking it was just friendship most of the time, sure, but when I was alone in bed at night who did I think of? Where did that fit in? I'd just refused to consider the possibility because I didn't want to be in love with someone I couldn't have. I'd focused on the surface of the relationship rather than make myself unhappy.

We lived thousands of miles apart. He was depressive. I had kids. We'd had _one date_. There were a dozen reasons why this could never be, not least of which was my own fear of dating because I couldn't stand the thought of losing the love of my life all over again. I'd learned the hard way how quickly someone could be stolen from you, and it would have been hard enough to find someone to love the way I'd loved Marty; to then risk losing them, too, had doomed every relationship I'd attempted.

But not a bit of that mattered now, because it was too late. Too late for my heart—I'd lost it without even knowing it. It might be too late for Dan, too, and that thought was enough to drive me mad. I rejected it utterly, shoving it away violently.

Why had I left it so _late_ , dammit? Part of me must have known when we'd met. How else did I explain my out-of-character forwardness that day? And after our one night, I'd come so close...but you don't fall in love with someone you've only just met, not when there's no future there, so I had pushed the feelings into a dark corner of my heart and sat on them, told myself it was just physical.

Only I hadn't shut it up completely, had I, or I wouldn't have ever texted. Why hadn't I admitted it to myself? To _him_? Why hadn't I _told_ him? He could certainly have used the ego boost, if nothing else, and looking back I thought he might have almost reciprocated. What was the worst that could have happened? What was I so afraid of?

This. This was what I'd feared, _and_ it was the worst thing that could happen. I was losing him, and there was nothing worse than this.

Panic blossomed in my chest, unfurling through my body and leaving me frozen, my breathing too fast. No. Nonononono. It isn't. It can't. Incomplete thoughts of frantic denial. _It won't. He's okay. No. Fine. Not fine. I'll help him. Okay, okay. I'll have a suicidal boyfriend. But he'll get better. The distance...I don't know. It doesn't matter. Just can't lose him. I have to get there. I_ am _getting there. It's not_ fast enough! _Dan. No, Dan. You promised. Nonono._

The plane hadn't even taken off yet. If my panic was obvious, people would just put it down to a fear of flying. I felt trapped, desperate, sick. And the only thing I could do was sit here. I pressed my hands against my face, willing myself not to scream.

I should have done something sooner. Maybe if I'd _told_ him...if I'd tried to get him to come visit a few weeks back, instead....if I'd just _told_ him...!

Maybe it wouldn't have made a difference. But it might have. I needed to tell him, while I still had time. I pulled out my phone and dialed, but he didn't answer. And while I was waiting for voice mail, and stewardess came and told me off for trying to use my phone.

The last leg of the trip was agony. The second I was clear of the plane, I tried calling again.

Again, he didn't answer.

I texted him. _I'm in LA. Still with me?_

After three minutes passed without a response, I tried calling again. It went to voice mail.

“This isn't funny. I need to talk to you. I'm worried sick. I love you. Call me. Please, please call me. I'm on my way.”

Five minutes after that, while stuck on an escalator, I sent another text. _I love you. I'm an idiot, I should have said it sooner. I promise I'll make it up to you. Just wait for me._

I wrote again from the inside a taxi, after sprinting the rest of the way through the huge airport. _Are you even reading these? Please be okay. I love you._

The fact that I didn't have a single response by the time the taxi dropped me in front of his building was very ominous. I only managed to fight off the black panic trying to swallow me because I _had_ to fight it off. Going to pieces wouldn't help. I had focused all my energy on getting there as quickly as possible, and even then, terror kept beating at my door. How long, I was thinking frantically as I ran up the steps. He'd still been writing me before I got on the plane. Maybe he'd just fallen asleep. Maybe he'd gone out to get something to eat and I still had time. Maybe he was just lying on his bed, too depressed to look at his phone.

I made it up the steps with my legs burning, and banged on his door. I didn't hear any sounds from inside. I tried the handle, but it was locked. “Dan!” I shouted, not caring that it was midnight—this was LA, probably all the neighbors were still up, anyway. “Dan, it's me, are you there? Can you hear me? Do I have to break the door down?”

A younger guy emerged from a door partway down the hall. “What's going on?”

“It's Dan,” I said stupidly, gesturing to the door. “He's not answering me. I think he's in trouble in there.”

The guy gave me an appraising look. “Maybe he just doesn't want to see you?”

“Oh for fuck's sake, I am not some jilted girlfriend!” My panicked voice was several notes higher than usual. “He was talking about hurting himself! Do you know anyone who has a key, or do I call 911 right now?”

  1. I should have called them the second I realized he wasn't going to write me back. They did courtesy checks, right?



“There's a desk downstairs,” the guy said, clearly grasping the gravity of the situation, and scampered off. I was already dialing emergency services. If I was wrong, I could handle looking like an idiot. Oh, I hoped I was going to look like an idiot.

I explained the situation on the phone, and they agreed to send someone out. I had just resumed my futile shouting into the door when the guy from down the hall returned, with some sort of building employee in tow. I frantically explained the whole thing again, and they unlocked the door for me. I burst in and found the main light switch. The living room was empty. I ran the few steps to the bedroom, terrified that I was going to see him hanging from the ceiling. Behind me, I dimly heard one of the men who had followed me in say “Oh my God, there's a note.”

The bedroom was empty. I spun around toward the bathroom, and flung the door open.

The black pit opened up under my feet.

I uttered a strangled shriek of denial and threw myself forward. No. No, no, _no_! I leaned into the tub, not even noticing the water soaking into my clothes, and touched his cheek. There was a smear of fresh blood there, and I wiped at it with my thumb. He didn't open his eyes. “Dan!” I don't how I spoke, because my throat was so tight I could hardly breathe. I moved my hand to his shoulder and shook him. I could feel that black pit lurking behind me, under me, but I couldn't fall into it. Not yet. Not until I knew, _knew_ there was nothing else I could do.

I pressed my fingers to his throat. Was that something...? I was shaking, my own heart shuddering in my chest, and I couldn't tell if the faint pulsing I felt was coming from him, or from me. Or maybe just from my own frantic imagination.

I shifted my fingers and pressed harder. It _felt_ like something. His skin was cool, and his face was pale. I moved my hand down to his bare chest, then abandoned all sense of decorum and leaned over him, pressing my ear to his heart.

Yes! I heard it, it was there. I let out a sobbing breath of relief and hugged his limp form. The black pit receded slightly. It wasn't over, not yet—but that didn't mean much. It only meant I hadn't lost him _yet_. I kissed his damp forehead, and pulled the plug on the bathtub. There was a lot of pink water to drain away. I was finding towels in the linen closet when one of the men from the building came in behind me and swore.

“He's alive,” I told him, hearing the edge of panic in my voice when I spoke. “I felt his heartbeat. But we need to get him to the hospital.”

“Shit, yeah,” the guy agreed. “What can I do?”

“Call 911 back and ask them what to do for slit wrists,” I told him. “I'm going to try and get him warm.”

Realizing that a blanket would do a much better job than a couple of towels, I went and grabbed the comforter off his bed. “Can you help me?” I asked the other man, the caretaker or whoever he was, as I carried it into the bathroom. He followed me wordlessly, and when I directed him to take Dan's legs, he helped me lift him onto the blanket.

“Are you Sharon?” he asked, standing back to give me space as I wrapped Dan up in the blanket.

His wrists were still bleeding; it couldn't have been that long ago that he'd done it, surely? “What?” I asked distractedly. I should wrap the wounds, get some pressure on them to slow the bleeding more.

“I said, are you Sharon?”

“How'd you know?” I asked, heading back to the linen closet.

“He left a letter out there. It's addressed to you.”

Oh, Dan. I wanted to weep, but there wasn't time right now. None of the washcloths in here were long enough. I'd have to hold them in place. Wait! I ran back to the bedroom and pulled off the pillowcases. After rolling them up, I wrapped the first around his damaged left wrist, looping over the gash and around his thumb before tying it tightly. The right one gave me more trouble, because the slash he'd made on that side was vertical; I could just imagine him dryly saying “covering my bases” and quirking a bitter little smile. I had to blink my eyes furiously against the image and the tears that tried to come with it, but I got the right side done, too. Then I wrapped him more securely in the blanket, sat down, and pulled his head into my lap.

“What did they say?” I asked, because the neighbor had gotten off the phone with 911.

“They're on their way. Keep him warm, put pressure on the wounds.”

“Thanks,” I said, and mentally dismissed both of them to focus on the man in front of me. I stroked his cheek softly, felt the stubble there, and allowed myself to cry. I leaned down to kiss him again, even though he was beyond noticing. “It's going to be okay,” I whispered, as much for myself as for him. “I'm here. Oh God, Dan, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner. I'm sorry I can't just fix everything. I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I _want_ you to come to Michigan. Not just to save your life. I want to see you every day. I want to hear your voice, and touch you, and be there for those rare times when you really smile. Stay with me now.”

He looked so young right now. I cradled his head and shoulders as if he were one of my kids, and pressed my forehead to his. “Stay with me, love. Stay with me, please. You can't die without hearing me say I love you.” I sat up and tenderly stroked the hair on his forehead, guiding it back into something resembling his usual style.

The ambulance took so long to arrive. Maybe it wasn't really that long, but when you're holding your unconscious lover as he slowly bleeds out, every minute feels like an eternity. I prayed. _Please God, don't let me lose him now. He was still alive when I got here. Don't let him die in my arms._ I murmured reassuring repetitions in his ear. _You're going to be fine. We'll get you a new dream to shoot for. I love you._ I studied the lines and curves of his face, and watched red seep through the makeshift bandages I'd made around his wrists. Once or twice somebody tried to talk to me, but I didn't really hear them or respond. This was my world right now: this flawed, broken, utterly amazing man in my lap.

At last, I heard sirens, and a minute later more people crowded around the entrance to the tiny bathroom. The neighbor and the caretaker moved out of the way, but I remained where I was until they asked me to move. Something about my tear-drenched face and the way I'd been stroking his face must have given me away, because one of the EMTs asked kindly if I was his wife.

I shook my head, but decided to bend the truth just a tiny bit. “Girlfriend. Is he going to be alright?”

They were moving him onto a stretcher, checking him over as they did. “Probably. It looks like he missed the arteries.”

“Really? But there's so much blood....” I gestured helplessly.

“Well, he did plenty of damage. But if he'd hit the artery, he probably would have been dead before you even got here. The fact that he's not, means it's just veins.”

“Then why won't he wake up?”

“He's in shock. You've kept him warm, put pressure on, I'd say his odds are pretty good. But we need to get him out of here. Are you coming along?”

“Can I?” I felt my face light up with hope.

“Sure.” The EMT smiled kindly. “Why don't you get his ID and anything he might need, while we're getting him downstairs?”

I nodded, hurrying into his bedroom to grab the clothing he'd shed before climbing into the bath. His phone was there, too, lying on the bed. I picked it up. Five missed calls and the most recent of my text messages still showed on the screen. He hadn't checked it since half an hour before I landed. He hadn't read any of them.

I didn't have any more time to stand around thinking about it. I made sure his wallet was in his pants pocket, then wrapped his phone and underwear up inside his jeans and T-shirt. I tucked it under my arm and headed toward the open front door.

A piece of paper on the kitchen table caught my eye as I passed. The note, right. I grabbed that, too, and folded it neatly before sticking it in my purse. I wasn't going to read it. I was going to give it back to him, and if he wanted me to know anything that he'd put in it, he'd have to tell me himself.

*

I'd briefly had time to envision myself sitting in the back of the ambulance, holding his hand and talking to him during the ride there. I even imagined him waking up, opening his eyes to realize I was there with him. But it didn't go like that. The EMTs were just finishing loading the stretcher into the back of the vehicle when I arrived outside, and I waited as patiently as I could outside the doors. I knew intuitively that if I stopped moving and started thinking, all hell was going to break lose and I'd become a blubbering mess in an unfamiliar city with zero friends outside of an unconscious shock patient. Not the sort of person a friendly EMT would want to deal with. Not helpful for saving Dan's life.

One of the EMTs stepped back out. There were just the two of them; a burly guy with graying hair, and a tall woman with glasses. I could see the woman leaning over the stretcher in the back of the ambulance, but from here Dan was just a still form inside. “You're riding with me,” the man told me firmly but not unkindly as he guided me around the side and opened the passengers door. With a reluctant glance over my shoulder, I climbed in and buckled my seat belt. He nodded in satisfaction, shut the door for me, and reappeared a few seconds later to hop into the driver’s seat.

“Thanks for giving me a ride,” I said tentatively as he started driving. “What do I do when we get there?”

He kept his eyes focused on the road, but his tone was friendly now. “You'll get shunted off to the side. Sorry about that. But the focus is on saving your boyfriend's life, not making you comfortable.”

I nodded, silently hating that the words “save his life” had been used. They'd sounded optimistic inside, but he clearly wasn't out of the woods yet.

“How long have you been together?” he asked, clearly trying to be nice.

I clenched my hands together. I would stay calm. I would stay calm. I would stay calm. “About eight months,” I answered softly. “I knew...” I shut my eyes, shook my head, tried again. “I tried to get there sooner tonight. I knew he was in trouble.”

“I'm sure you did everything you could,” the driver told me soothingly.

I nodded again, glumly this time, and continued clenching my hands. I wondered what was going on the back of the vehicle. Was there anything they could do for him right here? They weren't surgeons, but there must be _something_ , right? I decided to ask, and jerked my head to indicate the back. “Am I allowed to ask what she's doing back there? I don't want to get in the way but I mean...is there anything you guys can do, beyond getting him to the hospital ASAP?”

“We've got fluids and oxygen back there, and Sue's keeping him warm and still. They'll stop the bleeding and stitch him up pretty quick once we get to the ER, I bet.”

“Is there someone I can tell, when we get there? I mean, so they know who he is, what happened, where to find me?”

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure they'll want to know that stuff.” A quick grin flashed over his face, which reassured me slightly.

I felt like I should make conversation, but couldn't think of anything else to say. The driver allowed me to spend the rest of the trip staring out the window at LA nighttime traffic in silence. Even at this time of day, traffic was bad, and he turned on the sirens at several points to get us through congested areas. Every time he did, it reminded me that we really were racing against the clock here, and my chest constricted. I repeated my internal orders to myself to stay calm, and made myself surf the internet on my phone. I didn't really take in anything I saw, but it helped to keep me occupied.

Finally, _finally_ , we arrived at the Good Samaritan Hospital. My buddy and his friend Sue wheeled Dan out, and it shook me to see the oxygen mask and IV they'd stuck on him. I hovered by the stretcher as we proceeded inside, and tried to comfort myself with the fact that under all the scary gear, he was still alive. That was the important part. He was still alive, and we were here.

After a few minutes of doctors, hallways, and confusion, a nurse peeled me away. She sat me down, accepted his wallet and listened to my story, and then gently explained the situation from her end. I was not family. I had no power of attorney—pretty much no power at all, in fact. If there were any decisions about care to be made, they tracked down Dan's next of kin instead of talking to me. “Oh Jesus, his mom's in Oregon,” I blurted out in distress. “He wouldn't want you to call her. He wouldn't want you to!”

“Well if he comes through this alright, we won't have to,” the nurse told me. Maybe she thought it was reassuring. It wasn't.

I pulled the note out of my purse. Still refusing to look at the body of handwriting, I flashed the top of it to her. “He left this. To me, not his mom. _Me_.” I put it away quickly, taking a deep breath and forcing myself back under control. I would not make a scene.

She smiled sadly, with sympathy. “I bet he did. And if he wakes up and asks for you, that makes things a little different. But until then we have to follow the law. You get that?”

I took another deep breath and nodded. “I get it. Will...will you tell him that I'm here, though? When he wakes up?” I said _when,_ refusing to use the terrifying _if._

“It won't be me,” the nurse pointed out, glancing at the computer screen in front of her, waiting for input. “But yeah, of course they will.”

I nodded again, shakily. “What do I do until then?”

She got my name and info—to make some sort of note on Dan's record, I assumed—and pointed me in the direction of the bathrooms and cafeteria in case I needed them. I was dismissed.

I sat down in one of the padded chairs, expecting myself to burst into tears any second. They didn't come. I felt frozen, numb from panic and exhaustion at this point. What time was it back in Michigan now? How long had I been up? I knew it had been ages since I'd last eaten, so even though I felt more sick than hungry, I made my way toward the cafeteria. My stomach growled when I smelled all the hot food, yet none of it looked appetizing. I got a large chocolate chip cookie and a coffee, and sat at a little table breaking off small pieces and dipping them into the hot drink. When the cookie was gone, I held the cup in both hands and sipped at it, relishing the little bit of warmth and caffeine that it provided. I read some stupid stories and lists on my phone, but stopped after less than half an hour because the battery was running very low. I'd brought the charger to LA, of course, but left it in my backpack back at Dan's apartment.

For some reason, that thought triggered the flood of emotion that I'd be suppressing until now, and I fled to the nearest bathroom to mop at my eyes and nose with paper towels and work on getting my breathing back under control. I headed back to the cafeteria when I calmed down, where I got myself a new, hotter, coffee. My coffee and I headed back to the waiting area, where thankfully there was plenty of tissue.

I sat there for at least an hour, sipping at the slowly cooling coffee and flipping through magazines I didn't really find interesting. I dozed off briefly at one point, when the sheer exhaustion of the day caught up to me. I was staring blankly at the muted TV in the corner when a lady came out of the nearest hallway and called my name.

I jumped up so quickly I almost fell over myself. “Is he alright?”

She nodded and gave me a reassuring smile, and the tears started flowing again. “It's Daniel, right?”

I nodded, mopping stupidly at my eyes with a tissue. “Dan.”

She smiled kindly again. “Dan's stable and out of surgery now. He should make a full recovery.”

I smiled through my tears. “ _Thank_ you. Can I see him?”

“He's still under general anesthesia,” she shot me down gently. “But once he's awake, we'll let him know that you're here.”

I nodded again. Hopefully he'd wake up soon...and hopefully he'd want to see me. I'd saved his life when he didn't want saving, after all. He was going to wake up in the hospital because of me, really. He'd have to face another day in his life because I'd interfered. I'd been so wrapped up in my need to see him again, and my conviction that knowing how I really felt would help him, make him want to live...but what if he was furious with me? What if he told me I was a selfish bitch for making him keep on living in this cruel world, and wanted nothing more to do with me? 

I didn't believe it, but the thought scared me anyway. I was still glad I'd done it, and nothing was going to make me change my mind about that. But the idea of going in there and having him yell at me—or worse, tell the nurses he didn't know me—filled me with anxiety. Maybe my heart had just gotten so used to fear and stress, now that I knew he was going to live, it needed to replace fear for his life with something else.

The next half hour passed for me in a mix of relief and dread. At last the same nurse reappeared, and led me back to a curtained recovery area. And there he was, reclining on a cot in a blanket and hospital gown, looking roughly like he'd been run over by a truck...but his eyes were open. I crossed the space between us swiftly, and watched his eyes slowly focus on me.

“Hi,” I said, and had to stop before I started crying again.

Dan blinked, and studied me intently. “It's _you_.”

I grinned almost despite myself, and spread my arms in a wide shrug. “I told you I was coming.”

His brow furrowed, a sharp V of confusion forming. “You did?”

I nodded, my grin fading, and sat down gently on the side of his bed. I wanted to throw my arms around him and sob in relief, but he didn't look like he could handle it right now. Instead, I put my hand on his, running my thumb lightly over the tops of his fingers. “I did.”

“Sharon,” he said slowly, staring at me.

I smiled. “It's me.”

“You're...you're _here_?”

I laughed ever so slightly, and tried to tighten my grip on his hand. The bandages went up past his thumb, which made it difficult, but I sort of wrapped my hand around the ends of his fingers. “Yes.”

He nodded drunkenly. “Yeah. I...you're _Sharon_. How'd you get here?”

Blinking back tears, I caressed his fingers with my thumb. He probably wouldn't remember _any_ of this in a few hours’ time. “I took an airplane. Because I love you.” 

His brow crinkled again. I decided it was adorable, and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “Sharon,” he repeated doubtfully.

“Dan,” I whispered, resting my palm over his heart. “I am so glad you're okay.” The tears started back up quietly, though I ignored them. “I didn't think I'd ever see you again.”

“I...” he began, but trailed off. I kissed him, softly and briefly, on the edge of his mouth. I didn't intend anything with it, but he turned into the kiss after a second. It was painfully awkward; he might as well have just gone to the dentist from the slackness in his lips. You couldn't even really call it a kiss.

“I love you,” I said again, my mouth still close enough to his that my lips brushed his cheek as I spoke.

He tipped his head to the side, studying me with drowsy interest. “How're you here?”

Oh jeez, this could go on all day. But kissing him, looking at him, touching him felt so damn good I couldn't care. “You needed me,” I said simply. “I took an airplane and I'm here.”

“Here...” He pulled his head back, looking dazedly around our little piece of hospital room. I saw something click into place, and he shut his eyes. “Oh. Right.”

“You remember?” I asked, not really wanting to.

He shrugged, then shook his head. “No, but...” He looked down at his hospital gown and his bandages. “I did it?”

“Hey.” I put my hand back in his, reassuring him. “Stay with me here.” His eyes came back up, focusing on my face, and I gave him a smile. “I love you.”

He stared at me for a long minute, and I watched a smile start to kindle and then die away on his face. His eyes closed, and at first I thought he was just trying to shut everything out. But he didn't reopen them, and after a minute I noticed his breathing become more slow and even. Ah well, he needed the rest. I kissed his forehead gently, and sat by him in silence for a while as he dozed.

The second time he woke up, it went a bit better.

They moved him to a different recovery room, one that looked a little more like a hospital room than a recovery bay even though there were several other beds in it. Since the nurse wanted to recheck his saline IV or vitals or whatnot as well, I took the opportunity to use the bathroom and get a drink of water. When I came back, I rounded the edge of his curtain to see that he'd elevated the back of the bed so that he was nearly sitting up, and his eyes fastened on me almost at once. I smiled as I walked over, and again I stopped short of giving him the tight hug I really wanted. Instead I sat down carefully on the side of his bed, gripped his fingers in one of my hands, and stroked the backs of my free fingers over his cheek.

He just looked at me, and whatever had been helping me hold it together, snapped. I leaned forward, resting my cheek on his chest, and hugged him as hard as I dared. “Don't do it again. Please don't ever do it again.” I lifted my head and kissed him softly on the lips, letting the sensation linger before pulling back. I felt tears on my cheeks, and could see a small wet spot on his face where one had dripped onto him. “I love you.”

Dan blinked slowly. His voice was still thick with medication. “I juuuuust woke up, so I'm a little fuzzy here. Why are you kissing me?”

I smiled, and squeezed his hand. “Because I love you.”

Again, he looked confused—but at least he wasn't asking me what I was doing here. “You're not mad? I...I didn't wait. You asked me to wait for you, and I didn't.”

I kissed his cheek this time. “It's okay, I forgive you. Just please don't do it again.”

“I...won't?” He looked slightly stunned.

“Okay, there's no way it's going to be _that_ easy.” I was still holding onto his hand, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles.

He shook his head, still looking dazed. “No, I...” He blinked slowly again. “I realized I didn't want to. But it was too late.”

I leaned in and hugged him. “It's never too late.” Attempting a touch of humor, I added “I'm relieved, too, you know. I thought _you_ were going to be mad at _me_ , for stopping you.”

He was still shaking his head. “I can't believe you're really here.”

Smiling, I inclined my head toward him. “I could say the same thing about you.”

“Did you just say you loved me?” Delayed reaction—and clear proof he didn't remember much of anything I'd said or done earlier.

I kissed his mouth again, slowly, letting my lips part against his. This time he seemed to register what I was doing; he kissed me, too. I started crying again, and moved back mere inches to answer his question. “Yes. Yes I did. I love you, Dan. I was an idiot not to say anything sooner. An idiot and a coward.”

More head-shaking, but his speech was becoming marginally less slurred. “No you're not. I know why you didn't.”

That one caught _me_ off guard. “You do?”

His hand twitched, like he was going to lift his arm, but then subsided. “You didn't think I'd say it back. Because you can't love someone else if you don't love yourself, isn't that what they say?”

There was a strong ring of truth to that. _Was_ that why I'd kept deluding myself into thinking it was just friendship? No, but it might have been a part of it. “Well, I don't care,” I told him defiantly. “I still—”

“But they're wrong,” he plowed ahead over me. “I've loved you ever since the first time we watched a movie together. Remember?”

I wrapped my hand around his, carefully lifted it up against my cheek, and nodded. “Twelve Angry Men. Henry Fonda.”

He nodded vaguely, satisfied. “I never mentioned it because I knew I wasn't good enough.”

“Not _good_ enough?” I asked in unfeigned disbelief. “For _me_? _No_ , Dan! You are so far out of my league, I can't—”

“Stop interrupting,” he told me calmly. “I don't think I'm good enough for you. Deal with it.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “But in the bathtub...when it was already done, and I was sitting there watching the way the blood sort of... _billowed_ into the water...and I thought, I wish I could tell Sharon about this. And I thought about the calls from you that I hadn't answered, and I felt like the most selfish shit on the planet. My dreams didn't come true, so I was going to make you find me like that.”

“Hey, better me than a bunch of kids at Adventureland,” I said before I remembered I was supposed to stop interrupting. I just couldn't seem to shut up.

Dan ignored me. “That's when I thought about stopping it. I'd at least get up, go listen to the messages I knew you'd left. Maybe even call you back. But my legs were shaking when I tried to get up. I sat back down. I got lost in my thoughts for a minute instead of moving. I realized that maybe if my dreams weren't coming true, then maybe I needed a new dream. And I thought of you. I tried again to get up. I really meant to, that time. But it was too late.”

I looked around for a tissue. Luckily, there were some right next to his bed. I wiped my face and nose before doing anything else. “Come home with me,” I suggested again. “I'll stay until you're recovered. Then quit your job and come home with me. Just come be my boyfriend for a while. Please. I'm asking because I want you there. That's all I want. You.”

He stared at me for a long minute, and I saw the first tear slip from the corner of his eye. He blinked, and another followed it. “Okay,” he answered, and emotion vibrated in his voice. He nodded and said the word one more time. “Okay.”

I hugged him, and he burst into tears. “It's okay,” I whispered to him, even though I knew it wasn't. “Let it out. You _need_ to let it out.” His hands found their way around my back and held me close, but the way he held onto me as he cried wasn't remotely romantic. It was grief, pure and simple. Grief, despair, embarrassment, horror. I blinked back a few more tears of my own as I let him pour it out into my shoulder. God only knew how long he'd been holding all this in, I reflected as I stroked his hair. Every callback he never got, every rude asshole at work, every dream he'd flushed away. And the helplessness he must have felt, if he really had changed his mind at the last minute. What must it have felt like to stare at those yawning gashes in his arms, to fight against the dizziness and weakness, to not even be able to haul himself back out of the tub and call it off? To lose the battle for consciousness thinking that he'd never open his eyes again?

He didn't try to say anything, though. He just clung to me like a drowning man, pulling in deep, shuddering gasps of air and leaving damp spots all over my shirt. I kissed his forehead, moved my hands over his shoulders in what I hoped was a comforting manner, and hoped to God I was getting it right. “I love you,” I told him softly at intervals as he wept. “I'm sorry that's not enough, I'm sorry it doesn't just _fix_ everything, but I love you and we'll work on making it better. Together. It's over now. You're okay. It'll be okay. I love you.”

“I don't deserve you,” he repeated at last, when the sobs had subsided to soft, intermittent hiccups.

“Yeah, except you do,” I said with a small smile, and passed him a tissue.

He shook his head, and blew his nose. “It was a shitty thing to do. I promised. I _promised_ you I wouldn't. I knew you were coming. I knew you'd have to _find_ me. Not just dead, but...” he gestured to his arms. “The mess. I know you lost your husband, and I was still going to let you find me slit open in the fucking bath.”

It _was_ a shitty thing to do, when he put it like that. I barely held myself together as it was. If I'd got there and it had already been too late...I would have survived, but I would have been a train wreck for a while. But looking at him right now, with the pale, tear-stained face and bandages and IV, I just couldn't summon the anger. I offered him a very tight smile instead. “So why did you?”

He sighed, and looked away from me. “I thought I didn't care. It felt like I was past feeling _anything_. Except maybe this low-grade anger at anyone and everyone. Especially myself. I cared some, that's why I tried to write it down, but at the end of the day I just wanted it all to stop.”

“And you changed your mind? Really?” I couldn't help myself. It still seemed too good to be true.

He nodded, and pulled me closer again. “I don't want to die. I don't have any idea what to do with myself that will help, but I'm glad I didn't die.”

I hugged him back. “So am I. And what do you mean, you don't know what you're going to do with yourself? You're going to stop being a skipper, stop selling your soul every day just to pay the rent, and start spending a lot more time with me.”

“Right.” That won a tired, wan smile from him. “Michigan. That sounds almost scarier than suicide.”

I tried to narrow my eyes angrily at him but dammit, I laughed. “If you hate Michigan, you can always stop being in Michigan. It's a lot harder to stop being dead.”

He stared at me, and a real smile started to form. “I can't believe you love me.”

“Give me time,” I murmured, hugging him tighter. “I'll convince you.”

*

He fell back asleep not long after that, and I think I must have, too. How I managed it while leaning on the side of his hospital bed, I have no idea, except that exhaustion can do amazing things. I'm in the eternal debt of the nurses who allowed me to remain there rather than wake me up.

I was still bone-tired when I woke back up. There was drool on my cheek, and my back hurt from the angle I'd passed out at. My contacts felt dry and sticky in my eyes, and I had a headache. But when I carefully stood up, stretched, and went down the hall to use the bathroom, morning sunlight was streaming in the windows. I returned to Dan, found him still out cold, and pulled my nearly-dead cell phone out of my purse. Not just morning, but mid-morning. And no missed calls. That was all I needed to know for now.

I watched the bags of blood and saline hanging next to the bed slowly deplete, and tried to think of an immediate game plan. I had no idea how long they were going to keep Dan here, but I'd promised to stay with him while he recovered. The fact that they hadn't carted him off to a psych ward or given him a private room made it seem more likely that it would be a short stay, but I didn't dare jump to any conclusions. And I couldn't sit by his bed indefinitely. At some point I'd need real sleep, and access to the backpack I'd stupidly left in his apartment. I hadn't thought to look for his keys when I was trailing the EMTs out the door. Had that building employee thought to lock up? Shit, hopefully I hadn't gotten his place robbed when we left!

On the other hand, if someone _had_ locked it for me, that was going to make it pretty difficult for me to get back in. I was going to have to go back. I hated to bother Dan with that sort of petty concern, but I'd better ask him what to do about it next time he woke up.

The fluids weren't actually depleting that slowly...either that, or my thinking process was _really_ slow right now. A little from column A, a little from column B? At any rate, half that bag of blood had already disappeared into the tube attached to his arm, and there was a light blinking to indicate the saline was empty. When a nurse came over to replace it I said I was going to grab a drink from the cafeteria, and asked her to let Dan know as much if he woke up. Part of me was hoping she'd just offer me a cup of coffee from some secret nurse stash, or become friendly and chatty and tell me all about how well he was doing or something. But she was clearly busy taking care of multiple different patients, so off I went to the cafeteria.

I drank half a bottle of water, devoured a chicken salad sandwich, and took yet another cup of coffee back to the room with my remaining water. I did feel slightly better, but part of me was really starting to yearn for a hot shower and a comfortable bed.

I came around the curtain, and Dan smiled at me. I forgot all about wanting anything else, and beamed back at him. After depositing my drinks on the small rolling table and dumping my purse in the uncomfortable chair, I resumed my sideways position on the edge of his bed. “I will never get tired of that,” I greeted him.

“Of what?” His eyebrows lifted inquisitively.

“Seeing you smile.”

“Oh,” he yawned. “Well, no danger of that. I don't do it enough for you to get sick of it.”

I brushed my fingers over the unwrapped part of his left forearm. “I'll _never_ get sick of it, I said. You could do it all day, every day, and I still wouldn't get sick of it.”

He stared at me and blinked stupidly. “You really mean it, don't you.”

I lifted my eyebrows. Are you kidding me? “Uh, duh?”

The response sounded enough like a valley-girl that he snorted in amusement. “Who knows. Maybe you can get me back in the habit.”

“Of smiling?”

He nodded, but he glanced down at his bandaged arms and the amusement vanished. “That was really fucking stupid,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself.

“Well...” I was still tired, and couldn't come up with anything properly uplifting to say. “Yeah. But I get it.”

Dan shook his head. “You don't. I...I'm out of a job because of this.”

“They called to fire you in the hospital?” I asked dubiously. “That's cold.”

His face twitched. “No, not yet. But they'll do it pretty damn quick next time I turn up, if they haven't already canned me for missing work.”

I felt the confusion on my face. “Why? I know they're kind of assholes, but emergencies happen.”

“Not at Disneyland,” he answered bleakly. “And damn sure no one tries to kill themselves there, as far as management's concerned.” He gestured lethargically to one arm. “This is going to be a hell of a pair of scars, and that's not something Disney wants all those cute little tourists seeing. A suicidal skipper doesn't fit the _image.”_

I rolled my eyes. What a horrible, sanitized place to work. “Well, fuck them. You're not going back anyhow. You're coming with me, remember?”

“I guess I forced my own hand there,” he sighed.

I gave him a haughty look, hoping it masked it sting of what he'd just said. “You sure do know how to make a girl feel special, damn.”

Dan sighed again, but this time he was really looking at me as he shook his head. “Fuck, that _did_ sound shitty. I didn't mean it like that. I'm...shit.”

He sat forward, catching me by surprise, and bringing one hand around the back of my head to pull me into a kiss. He didn't taste spectacular, but I'd just been drinking coffee so I had no room to talk—and anyway, it wasn't like he'd had the opportunity to brush his teeth in the past twelve hours. I kissed him back readily, hurt feelings dissolving at once, and he must have been feeling more himself because it was _good_. This kiss reminded me of past ones, leaving memories from eight months ago fresh in my mind.

“We need to talk about all the things we're going to do when I get out of here,” he said when we broke apart, meaning it'd had a similar effect on him.

“No,” I said urgently, stepping down firmly on my own rush of lust. “No, we do _not_. If we _talk_ about it, they're going to have to pry me off of you, and it will be very, very awkward.”

His eyes flickered down to his crotch, and amusement flickered in his face. “Alright, _that's_ still working,” he said very seriously.

I think he'd intended to make me laugh, but my damn hormones were still too close to the surface. “Is it, now?” I purred, wanting very badly to put my hand there and find out for myself. Instead I shook my hand, clutched my hands together in my lap, and pointedly looked anywhere else. “The sooner we get you home, the better.”

“You don't think the doctors would want to know?” he asked, still very straight-faced. “Proof that I want to go on living? At the very least, I bet they're hard up for entertainment.”

That time it _did_ make me laugh, clapping my palm to my mouth to muffle the outburst. “I love your acting, but I don't think I want to be involved in _that_ sort of show with you. It'd probably end with me getting kicked out of the hospital.”

“We can't have that,” he agreed gravely.

I grinned. “It's so good to see you again. Isn't that stupid? I haven't slept in...I don't even know, I'd kill for a good back rub and hot shower, we're in a hospital, and you literally almost died last night. And all I can think right now is how happy I am just to be hanging out with you. How good it is to see your face and hear your voice again.”

The humor in his face had died away while I was speaking, but he didn't look like he was about to cry again, either. “It's good to see you, too,” he said softly. “Waking up and having you here...”

“Get used to it,” I said, and snuggled closer to him. It wasn't exactly comfortable, leaning with my head on his chest at this angle, but the emotional rush of feeling his body head against me and hearing his heartbeat under my ear more than made up for the physical strain.

After a minute of contented silence, I turned enough to let me look up into his face. “I wish we _did_ know how long you're going to be here, though. Have they said anything to you?” Reluctantly, I began to explain about our abrupt departure from his apartment the previous night.

As I'd expected, the topic made him grimace. “You used my _comforter_? What are we going to sleep on when we get back there?”

“I was more interested in keeping you alive enough to sleep _somewhere_. Sorry.” I made a face at him, and got a shadow of a smile. “I wrecked your pillowcases, too.”

He sighed. “Well, shit.”

I started to laugh again. It wasn't even really that funny, I was just exhausted and jumped up on too many emotions. I couldn't regulate myself anymore. And there _was_ something comical and ridiculous about it.

“Christ, you look beat,” Dan said apologetically. “You can go back there and crash, you know. I mean, my bed doesn't have any comforter or pillowcases, but you're probably past caring, right? I'm not going to drop dead if you leave for a few hours.”

I rolled my eyes. “From what I've seen of getting around in LA, by the time I get there and back it will have _been_ a few hours, never mind a nap!” I hesitated. “I should, though, shouldn't I. At the very least, I can buy some new linens, put them on, and clean up the bathroom before you get home. Maybe brush my teeth and charge my phone.”

He continued to look pained. “I'm not sending you back there to clean up my mess!”

“Well it's not like you're going to be in any state to do it when you get back,” I pointed out logically. “Where can I buy them and what size is your bed?”

“No.”

“Dan.” I sat up and looked at him firmly. “It needs to be done. You're stuck here. I am quite confident neither of us will want to deal with it when you're discharged from the hospital. So quit trying to stop me.”

He still looked like he was in pain, and it occurred to me that maybe it wasn't just the conversation causing it. I glanced at the IV stand on the other side of the bed, but all that told me was that he was still taking in blood and fluids. I wondered briefly how he didn't have to pee after all that, remembered from my long-ago cesareans that catheters were easy to conceal, and dismissed the thought. Instead, I studied his eyes harder. “You need more pain meds?”

He shook his head tightly, which had the effect of convincing me he absolutely did. I took his hand in mine and gave an encouraging little squeeze, and was rewarded with enough responding pressure to make _me_ wince. “Okay, yes you do,” I informed him with what I hoped was a gentle smile—it was hard to be sure, what with my fingers still getting crushed. “I'll go track down a nurse.”

Luckily, the nurse I found was not only able to add some more morphine or whatever it was into his saline drip, she was also able to answer all the questions Dan was willing to ask. While she couldn't say anything for sure about his discharge, she did make us feel more confident about it being in the next twenty-four hours. No, they weren't forcing him into the psych ward, though there _would_ be someone from that department along to talk to him at some point. Yes, he seemed to be recovering well. No, he wasn't likely to get kicked out of here in the next few hours, which meant I had time to take care of things back at the apartment. Yes, he could have something to eat. And so on.

I waited for his medicine to really kick back in before I left, but I couldn't put it off any more than that. He gave me instructions on where I could find things, and what to do if the door was locked when I got there; I didn't have the heart to ask what to do if it was unlocked and everything of value was missing, so I just crossed my fingers.

By some miracle, there was a Target in West Hollywood, and just enough juice left in my phone to find the address for it. A cab took me there, and luckily I was able to pay them with my visa. By another miracle, it only took an hour to get back to the apartment even _with_ a quick stop into Target to buy a few linens. I carried them up the steps of the apartment building back in Hollywood in a large plastic bag, and by a third miracle no one had bothered to lock _or_ rob the place. I felt myself sag in relief, and dumped the bags in the middle of the floor as I groped for the light switch.

The last two times I'd been here, I hadn't had much chance to look at the living room. It was small, of course. Hardwood floors, a ceiling fan, a small kitchenette and an even smaller coat closet. A soft blue sofa by a coffee table with a laptop on it. Some pictures on the walls. Fanning a yawn, I walked over to examine them. A photo of an older couple I didn't recognize—parents, maybe? No, right, of course not. Grandparents, then? I moved on and immediately recognized the person in the next picture, because I'd seen him only an hour ago. This one was obviously from graduation; he was wearing a gown, holding a diploma, and smiling in the way only a recent graduate with no experience of the real world can smile. He looked so ridiculously proud and excited and innocent. Not at all like someone who would slit his own wrists in the bathtub twenty feet away.

He was adorable, though.

The one on the opposite wall was one I'd already seen, because he'd snapped a picture of it on his cell phone and texted it to me months ago. His high school production of _Romeo and Juliet_. Again, cute and young enough to make my heart ache. Why did he keep these up, where he had to walk past them every day, if he'd truly given up? A framed poster of Los Angeles at night finished off the art show, so I took deep breath and walked into the bathroom.

I hadn't really expected anyone to have cleaned up, but it was still jarring to see it pretty much the way I'd left it. The crumpled bedspread took up most of the floor, though aside from a few damp patches and one dark stain that was probably blood, it wasn't really the worse for wear. If I moved it back to the bed it would probably dry and be perfectly serviceable. I should have come here first, dammit.

The rest, though....it wouldn't really be so bad, if you were just some outsider sent in to clean it. Most of the blood had been contained in the tub. Just a few drops here and there on the floor. A little trail of it, probably from when we'd pulled him out. All of it was dried to that dark, almost brownish color. The tub still had some unpleasant pink around the drain, but that was it. And the serrated kitchen knife that had been knocked or dropped onto the floor behind the toilet hardly had any blood on it at all.

I threw it out anyway. Fuck that knife.

I found paper towels in the kitchen, and scrubbed out the tub first. Then I threw the bedspread over the shower rod, where it would hopefully dry faster and at the very least be out of the way. I scraped up the blood spots on the linoleum, trying hard not to remember the scene that had gotten them there. Because I _wasn't_ an outsider just cleaning up a few stains. This blood came from a man I...no, my _boyfriend_ , that's what he was now. This blood had dripped off my boyfriend's hand after he sliced into his own wrists, watched the flesh part and gave up on life. I tried not to think about how he'd looked when I saw him in the bath, and worked to focus instead on the fact that he _wasn't_ dead, that he _hadn't_ really given up.

Still, it was a relief when the spots were scrubbed away and I could retreat to the bedroom.

I wanted to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a hundred years, but I couldn't do that. Would a two-hour nap make things better, or worse? After a moment of dithering I dug the charger out of my bag, plugged my phone in, and went to have a drink of water while it charged up a little bit. I also used the time to find Dan's keys, which were on the table next to his bed. When my phone was at a safe 7% I set the alarm to go off in two hours, lay down on the bare mattress, and surrendered to sleep.

I woke up to the sound of my phone, and for a disoriented second I didn't know where it was. I groped around, found it, and realized it was a call, not my alarm. Not just any call. Someone at the hospital must have located Dan's cell for him in the roll of clothing I'd left there.

“Are you okay?” I asked, adrenaline driving away my grogginess.

“Couldn't be better,” he said with a touch of dry humor. “Were you sleeping?”

“Yeah but I'm up now, I can be back there in—”

“No, go back to sleep,” he cut me off. “That's why I called. I'm not getting out of here until sometime tomorrow, and it's stupid for you to go back and forth from my place again. You looked ready to drop dead earlier. Get some more rest, spend the night there.”

I wanted to object, say that I'd rather be by his side, but my head was still pounding and my eyes felt dry and red from crying and sleeping in my contacts. “Are you sure?” I asked instead, and laughed feebly. “I didn't mean to sound so relieved.”

“It's fine. If I was dating me, I'd want to sleep all the time too.”

“Ha ha, not funny,” I shot back, and found myself fanning a yawn. “I'd rather be there with you. But it was a rough night.”

“And the least I can do is let you get some sleep after it,” he replied fondly. “I've still got plenty of drugs so I'll be asleep most of the time, too. I'll see you in the morning, okay?”

I nodded, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. It was stupid, but being tired made me extra emotional, and even if I was going to see him again soon I didn't like saying goodbye. “Sleep well, then. I love you.”

“Love you, too,” he answered at once, and a burst of happiness flowed through me as I ended the call.

I took my contacts out immediately, and then dug through my backpack for a nightshirt. I'd forgotten to pack one, dammit. Figuring Dan wouldn't object, I went through the drawers of his dresser until I found his T-shirts. I chose a worn blue one, then stopped and considered the merits of a shower. Nope, the comforter was still drying over the shower rod. Time for sleep. I stripped my clothes off, pulled the shirt on, flopped back down on the bed, and knew nothing else for about nine hours.

My internal clock woke me up at about three in the morning; it was six o'clock back in Michigan, and I'd been asleep for longer than a usual night's sleep, anyway. I already felt _much_ better, but spending half an hour in a hot shower worked more wonders. I braided my wet hair back, put on some clean clothes, and tried to make myself look presentable. After that I sent a quick message to my parents, checked the news, and peeked out the window. I was a little scared to go outside on my own before daylight in LA, but I was also fucking starving. Unable to summon the courage, I poked around Dan's kitchenette and ate a few handfuls of the dry granola I found. There was some orange juice in his fridge, too, and after checking the expiration date I drank a glass of it. Now all I needed was coffee!

I set up an Uber ride back to the hospital, since sunrise wasn't too far off at this point. Then I picked up the copy of _The Complete Works_ that Dan had left lying by his bed, and decided to refresh myself on _Hamlet_ while I waited for it to arrive.

He was awake and alert when I got there, and when I wrapped my arms around him I got a responding kiss immediately. “You look beautiful,” he greeted me. “Feel better?”

“ _So_ much better,” I answered, running my fingers through his hair. He needed a shower, too, and a shave. But despite that, he looked a bit better, too. “How are you doing?”

He tilted his head sideways to indicate the IV that was still dripping extra fluids into him. “I've still got this. And a bunch of stitches. _But_. I had a real dinner last night and I got up to use the bathroom. So.” He shrugged a little bit.

“Progress,” I agreed with a smile. “Listen, you had no coffee in your house. And I love you like crazy, but you are not a substitute for coffee.”

“I'll ignore the second part of that. You love me like crazy.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. “Go get some coffee. I hope they have something better than pee water here.”

A startled laugh escaped me. “I can't believe you remember that!”

Dan lifted his eyebrows. “How could I forget a phrase like that?”

I tipped my head from side to side. “Good point. Okay.” I kissed him quickly. “I'll be back in like fifteen minutes.”

The rest of the day really wasn't half bad. I got my coffee, and we spent a few hours half-watching game shows on his complimentary TV. I made sure he got as much rest, fluids, and medicine as possible. They brought him solid food that looked halfway decent, and I read stupid articles on my phone while he took a nap. We talked some and touched a lot—not in the sexy way, but in the way of two idiots in love who can't get over their awe that the other person is there and wants to be with them. He introduced me as his girlfriend when the doctor came in to talk with him. It was pretty wonderful.

They released him that evening. I was glad I'd gotten a full night's sleep, because it meant I looked respectable and was able to ask intelligent questions when the doctor stood next to his bed and issued stern instructions. Some of those instructions were for me: these are his meds, this is what to expect, this is what he's not allowed to do. Some of them were for Dan himself, and mostly consisted of “get some psychiatric help, dude.” I asked a lot of questions about how long it would be before the stitches came out, and whether he had to make any regular check-ins with the doctor to establish that he hadn't slit his wrists again or whatever. The doctor seemed concerned at first, but once Dan explained that he was going to come stay with me for a while, and that we'd get him a nice therapist out there, the attitude changed. He could see a therapist and get his stitches out anywhere; the inner layer of them dissolved on their own, and as long as he continued to heal properly we could remove the outer ones ourselves in a few weeks.

Then again, they didn't really recommend jumping on the next plane out of LAX, either. On the uber ride back to his apartment, I searched flights on my phone. Then I remembered he had a car, and googled the drive time from LA to Lansing. 32 hours. Fuck me running. There was no way I could spend that long in a car, we'd have to break it up. Could I handle eight hours a day? That was pushing it, but for Dan... That'd put us back to Lansing in five days if we left tomorrow, which we obviously weren't going to be doing.

A week. We were looking at a full week away from my kids. That was way more than I bargained for, but there was no way I was leaving this place without Dan. Time to call in a shitload of favors back home.

But I couldn't resent it, either, just like I couldn't resent the bone-deep exhaustion I was feeling. We made it back to his place, and because he was still fairly doped up, I persuaded him to go straight to bed. He awkwardly stripped down to his boxers, and I showed him what I'd selected as a makeshift nightshirt. His old shirt was tight through my chest, but went halfway to my knees, and he smiled faintly when he saw me in it. I hadn't thought I'd be tired this early, since it was barely past dinnertime, but the time change and roller-coaster of emotions must still be working against me because I was wiped out.

By the time I got back from brushing my teeth and removing my lenses Dan was already out cold. I carefully climbed into bed beside him, pressing my chest into his back and wrapping my arms around him. He stirred briefly, then subsided. I stroked his hair, kissed the back of his shoulder, and was asleep before I even knew what hit me.

It must have been sometime near dawn when I woke up, and at first I wasn't sure what had roused me. I blinked at my unfamiliar surroundings, then remembered everything and turned my head to look at the man beside me.

He was already awake, and staring back.

“Hi,” I whispered, bringing my hand up to his cheek. “How you doing?”

In answer, he levered himself up on an elbow, brought a bandaged hand to my neck, and pulled me into a kiss. Unlike most of the chaste, wonder-filled kisses we'd shared in the hospital, this one meant business from the start. This kiss was slow, and deep, and involved a lot of movement and tongue.

My body responded at once, eagerly, but I kept myself in check. “Are you up to this?” I asked, worrying about his brand new stitches. Those gashes had been deep, too. I couldn't imagine him supporting himself on his wrists.

Dan nodded and kissed me again, more persuasively.

Trying to keep my speaking even, I asked “Should I at least be on top this time?”

His eyes were so dark, so intense. “Never.” After a beat, he added, “I can do it, look. I _want_ to do it.” And he shifted over on top of me, resting his weight on his forearms instead of his hands. It meant his face and chest stayed closer to me, but he was right—it would work.

Since his hands were sort of stuck up near my head, I took the liberty of shifting my own nightshirt up as I kissed him again. Then pushed my underwear to the side as I used my hand to guide him in.

The rush of pleasure was immediate, and my breath caught as he pushed deeper. It was so different from our last time—months ago, how could it be months and months since I'd had this? I'd been fantasizing about it for so long, aching for a moment I doubted would ever come. And it wasn't supposed to be like this. It was supposed to be red-hot; the sort of violent desire that had driven our first (and only) date. I'd dreamed up hard surfaces, running water, bruised knees and swollen lips, the feeling of him deep and hard from a dozen different positions. I'd imagined walls against my back, clothing being thrown out of the way, kisses that stole the strength from my legs and the breath from my lungs.

And this was none of that, but it was _him_ , and I didn't care about anything else. I couldn't have asked for more. That other stuff wasn't possible right now and it wasn't what we _needed_ right now, either. This was reassurance, love, affirmation. It was intense in an entirely different way, and it was intoxicating.

Heat grew inside me, spreading out slowly until it couldn't be contained. I tipped my face up, kissing every inch of him I could reach, and he tensed against me. My back arched, and a series of internal fireworks shook me. Both of us were crying when we finished; crying that we were both here, that this was possible, that our feelings were reciprocated. It felt _good_.

As the tension that had compelled us gradually unwound, he allowed himself to collapse slowly back into me, draping himself over me instead of the sheets. I wrapped my arms around his lower back, relished the way his breath warmed my cheek, and fell back asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day was complicated. When we finally woke up for real it was past lunchtime, and I was starving. Since Dan was still asleep, I decided to trust him alone long enough to run out for some coffee and bagels. He was still asleep when I got back, so I enjoyed my coffee while checking messages and facebook on my phone. There was a new update and some questions from my mom, and I decided I owed her a call.

My parents respected my rights as a grown woman to make my own decisions, and to their credit they had come to watch the boys without question or complaint when I said there was an emergency out west. That didn't make it easy to explain all the messy details right now. I told Mom everything was okay, but that I was bringing my boyfriend home with me—something which must have sounded a little odd given that I'd never mentioned _having_ one before.

I gave her the bare bones summary, leaving out the part about the slit wrists for the time being. I supplied our estimated date of arrival, and cringed at the heavy silence that followed. I apologized, tried and failed to properly explain why I couldn't be there any sooner, gave up and apologized again before asking if I could talk to the boys. They'd just gotten home from school, Mom told me, but she and Dad wanted to take them back to their house for the weekend, was that alright? I said that sounded perfect and thanked her, and she put Wesley on. Hearing his bright six-year-old voice made me miss him. He asked when I was coming home and told me about kindergarten, and I asked him about what he'd done with his Granny and Grandpa yesterday. We exchanged “I love you”s and he ran off to play.

His older brother took the phone and told me he missed me. I assured him that I'd be home soon, and thanked him for being so understanding and such a good helper. He asked why I'd left so suddenly, and if everything was okay. I choppily explained that I'd been really, really worried for one of my friends. He asked if “TiAlexa,” my oldest and best friend, was alright, and I assured him that she was fine, this was someone different. So of course he wanted to know who it was. A man named Dan, I told him. In fact, he was going to get to meet him soon, because Dan was going to come stay with us for a while. Why, he asked. Because I invited him, I said, which wasn't a very good answer and I knew it. I changed the subject.

When I eventually got off the phone and walked back into the bedroom, Dan was awake and had obviously been listening for some time. “So I'm your _friend_ now?”

“I figured that was a better approach for a fourth-grader than _lover_.” I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself giggling. “Don't worry, I'm sure he'll hear us having sex and be completely traumatized soon enough.” I sat down on the bed next to him. “How are you feeling?”

“More like a worthless, unsuccessful idiot than ever.”

I kissed his forehead and lay down so that our faces were level with each other. “Okay, not what I wanted to hear, but go on?”

He gestured to one of his wrists apathetically. “It was stupid and melodramatic. And if I'd done it right, I wouldn't even be here.”

“Which is why I'm glad you didn't do it right.” I put an arm over his chest, pulling him closer to me. “I saw them. I would have guessed you'd hit an artery, too. You cut deep. I could see layers of fat, and there was so much blood...” I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could forget it. “And you went into shock, so you did a pretty solid job. If I hadn't turned up...”

“I'm sorry.” He sounded agonized, like the words had been wrenched out of him, and he grabbed my hand. “I'm so sorry.”

I ran my thumb lovingly over his fingers. “I've already forgiven you, remember?”

“The note!” He sat up abruptly. “I wrote you a note. I must have spent an hour trying to find the right words. Fuck...”

“I have it,” I tried to reassure him. “I didn't read it; I wasn't sure you'd want me to. What should we do with it?”

He gave it serious thought, then shuddered. “Burn it.”

Part of me really wanted to know what was in it, but the other part of me felt like I'd had enough of suicidal Dan to last several lifetimes. “Consider it done. Now please, stop beating yourself up. We've been through this already. You're going to pursue your dreams in new and exciting ways.”

“And you're going to date a loser tour guide.”

I shut my eyes against the words, letting him see that they pained me. “I wish you knew how amazing you are. I wish I could kick Hollywood in the nuts for not noticing you, and Mickey Mouse for killing your spirit.”

“Don't fuck with the mouse,” he said with a shadow of a smile. “He'll fuck you back.”

“You already did that. Now listen, if you're feeling up to it, why don't we try making some plans?”

“I don't feel up to it.”

“That's lovely. Let's make some anyway.”

He gave me a dead-eyed stare. “This is why I get off on control, you know.”

I had to laugh. “Oh please. I am about as low-maintenance as they come. I'm just unrelentingly optimistic.”

“You're talking like a woman who wants to get held down while I fuck her.”

“That's because I absolutely _am_ a woman who wants that. But I don't think we should attempt it just yet.”

“You don't think I'm up to it?”

“I think you can work miracles when you put your mind to it. But I'd spend the whole time worried you were going to hurt yourself.”

“I'd make you forget.”

I made a low, soft moan in the back of my throat. “Don't tempt me.”

“Why not? It's all I'm good at.”

Oh, I was losing this battle, no doubt about it. I shook my head. “No, no. You are good at lots of things. Tempting me is just in the top ten.”

“Take your clothes off.” He said it so that it sounded like a suggestion and an order at the same time. I felt my breath quicken, and stood up to pull my jeans and t-shirt off.

Dan remained comfortably reclined on the bed, watching me with one eyebrow up. “Did I say stop?”

My jaw dropped a little bit, and desire uncoiled inside me and started running rampant through my body. Jesus, even a day out of the hospital he could get me wet in a matter of seconds. I removed my bra and panties, and waited.

“Lie down. On your back.”

I complied, stretching my arms out above my head and crossing my wrists as if I were tied up. He sat up, and I could see in his face a reflection of the same animal desire I knew was in mine. A smile danced at the edges of his lips. “Shut your eyes. And keep them shut.”

“Yes, sir,” I gulped, excitement searing me from the inside-out.

“Not 'sir,'” he scolded me. His voice was right next to my ear, but he wasn't touching me anywhere. Yet. “None of that. I don't want to hear anything out of you if it's not my name.” He hesitated, and added thoughtfully, “Or maybe 'Dan, you are a fucking sex god.'”

“Dan, you are a fucking sex god,” I repeated at once, with feeling. It was tempting to open my eyes and see if he was laughing, but I kept them closed.

Something brushed my stomach, and I inhaled sharply. The tips of his fingers, I realized as they traveled slowly up between my breasts and over the curve of one, lingering at the nipple before continuing down my side. I arched my back, and an elbow pushed me solidly back down into the mattress.

Lips, seemingly out of nowhere, closed around my other nipple. I gave a strangled cry, and my hips angled themselves upward hopefully. He traced along my side, from my breast all the way down to my hips, slowly enough to drive me mad. My hips moved again, and he adjusted his elbow and forearm to hold them down. His lips manifested themselves again just below his arm, and moved south.

My breathing was the only sound in the entire room, and it sounded loud and jerky. A moment later, it was replaced by a series of harsh, escalating moans. I squirmed without meaning to, hips rising and falling as he used his hands to push my thighs apart instead. Oh God, this was utterly unexpected, this was too much, this was _filth_.

This was incredible.

I heard my voice rise in pitch, approaching a scream. “Dan! _Dan!_ Da...Dan...Dan, Dan, _oh_ , Dan!” I ran out of words after that, mostly because I ran out of any sort of coherent thought.

He stopped, and I was just about to open my eyes when he kissed me, exploring the inside of my mouth the way he'd just explored other parts of my interior. I moaned, and allowed myself to wrap my arms around his shoulders. He mounted me, and he was right—both about making me forget to worry, and about the fact that he could pretty effectively hold me down and fuck my brains out at the same time.

“You're not an actor,” I told him when we were lying naked beside each other some time later. “You're a magician.”

“And for my next act, I'm going to make this pretty lady here scream for half an hour?”

“Hey, I'd pay to see it. Hell, I'd pay just to see you naked, though.”

“So I should start charging? I like the way you think.”

I grinned. “Okay, we'll keep it simple. Just one plan for the rest of today. You're going to tell me where to buy some groceries, I'm going to cook us dinner, and we're going to lie on your sofa watching movies of your choosing.”

“I _really_ like the way you think.”

That got him a kiss. “But tomorrow we really have to sit down and figure out where we go from here. If it helps, I can scream your name while we're doing it.”

He sighed elaborately. “Fine, fine.”

*

We actually wound up discussing _some_ of the details a lot sooner. I was searing the outside of a nice steak in the kitchen when he stumbled out of the bedroom in his boxers, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and proceeded to stand around watching me. I turned and lifted my eyebrows at him.

“How are your kids going to feel about it?” he asked earnestly.

“It's not their decision,” I responded calmly.

“But—”

I held up my hand to stop him. “If you can't stand them or vice-versa, then we have a problem, yes. Their well-being is more important to me than my own happiness.” I put down a set of tongs, turned, and stepped into his arms. “That being said, they're not going to be happy with a miserable mom, either, and they're sweet boys. I think you'll get along just fine. It might take a little adjusting, but don't let that prospect scare you off.”

He held me quietly for a while before articulating his thoughts. “I'm not qualified to be a dad.”

“Newsflash, neither are a lot of the assholes who hold that title,” I retorted. “And no one is _asking_ you to be a dad.”

“I know,” he sighed, “but it's closer than...” Again, he sighed, and rested his chin on my head. “I'm no good with kids.”

“You _work_ at _Disneyland_ ,” I said in disbelief, and started to giggle. Half a second later, his chest rumbled as he started to laugh, too. I went back to cooking dinner, and the subject was effectively dropped for the time being.

It was, however, a topic I'd been avoiding thinking too much about. Aside from my references to Xander and Wesley, they hadn't entered into my relationship with Dan thus far. If he really moved in with me, all that was going to change. It wouldn't be passionate, noisy sex every night and days of lying around getting to know one another, and it wouldn't be texts and phone calls fit in around my regular life. I'd want to give him my undivided attention, but my children needed it just as much. Could we really make this work?

I timidly voiced that idea while we were eating—not my concerns, per se, but giving words to the idea that yes, things would be different. I _wanted_ us to make it work, and that wasn't going to happen unless we were prepared.

“I'm sorry I have kids,” I mused aloud, and quickly regretted that word choice. “I mean, I'm not _sorry_ I have kids, because I love them and I love being a mom. But it doesn't seem fair on you, either. We're just getting started. We should have years of round-the-clock sex and stupid adventures and getting to know every little thing about each other before you have to worry about sharing me.”

“Sharon.” He hooked his foot around my leg under the table. “I'm 36. My chances of finding an attractive and available woman my own age _without_ kids has been steadily going down with every year. Why do you think I hardly date?”

“See now, I didn't _know_ you hardly date. I thought you were just tactfully not talking up all your exes.”

“Well...” He gave me a flash of a smile. “That too.”

I rolled my eyes. “Alright. Let me hear about them. I want to know about your life, about these special women who you were willing to risk your heart for.”

“Do the soccer moms after Skipper Dan count?”

“The ones who got to ride more than your boat, you mean?” I laughed quietly and shook my head. “Nah. I'm only interested in the ones you really fell for.”

He looked relieved, and I wondered how many soccer moms there had _been_. “In that case, there's only two. Three, if you count Mallory.”

“And now you absolutely have to start with Mallory, because why _wouldn't_ you count her?”

“Unrequited love. In high school. I wrote her poems and everything, though.”

“Ah. I had one of those, too.”

“No kidding.”

I nodded. “Ian. He was two years ahead of me but that didn't stop me spending all four years pining for him. Like an idiot. Was Mallory at least pretty?”

“Oh, yeah. But in a really generic way. Like a model, only toned down. Everyone thought she was cute, but no one thought she was beautiful. Except me.” He shook his head, laughing at his teenage self.

“So what was her problem?” I asked.

“Her problem?”

“Why wouldn't she go out with you?”

“Oh. I never had the nerve to ask her.”

“Seriously?” He nodded. “ _Seriously_?”

“Four years of high school and I doubt I ever said fifty words to her.”

“But you wrote her poetry.” I raised my eyebrows.

“I never said it was _good_ poetry. I mostly just paraphrased Shakespeare and added some angsty phrasing.”

I couldn't help smiling. “Oh my God, I love you so much.”

“If you say so.” He seemed both amused and incredulous. “Anyhow, Jennifer was my first real girlfriend.”

“College?”

“College. She was a dancer.”

I shut my eyes against a sudden image of a beautiful, lithe ballet dancer, with the sort of flexibility I could only dream of. “I hate her already.”

He was taken aback. “Why?”

“I'm just imagining this tall, thin woman who can put her legs practically behind her head, kissing my boyfriend. My Julliard-scholarship theatrical prodigy boyfriend. Ugh, I feel so mundane and inferior.”

“You're not.” He caught my leg with his foot again, and this time ran his toe up and down my calf. “You know how you imagined my mom, when I first told you about her? That was Jennifer. Never _Jenny_ , that ought to tell you something. Life was always to be lived on _her_ terms.”

I made a face. “What did you see in her, then?”

“I've asked myself that plenty of times. But I know we had fun together. She was smart and opinionated and honest. And she really was amazingly talented. I think I loved her because...because I thought I deserved someone like her. We were in the same league of talent, we liked the same things, we had the same friends.”

My nose remained wrinkled. “It sounds miserable. How long were you together?”

“About a year.”

“And then?”

“And then there was Lucy.” His eyes were staring off at something I couldn't see. He blinked, and it was gone—but that told me enough.

“Ah yes, the one who got away. You never told me—did you blow it, or did she?”

“I did.” He shook his head sadly. “I was too into my career. My _career_ , ha.”

“Don't start,” I warned him. “What happened to her?”

“Oh, she's married and somewhere out in the suburbs now. I think she owns her own restaurant.”

“That sucks,” I said out of sympathetic reflex. Then I stopped and thought about what I was saying. “Actually, it's great news for me. But it must have sucked at the time. How long ago was that?”

He'd just taken another bite of his food, and spoke around a mouthful of potatoes. “Eight years.”

“You haven't had a girlfriend in eight years?” I almost yelped.

I got narrowed eyes from across the table. “Okay, and how many guys have you fallen in love with since your husband died?”

“Just the one.” I felt myself blush slightly, and stared at the table. “Anyway. Um. What were we talking about?”

“That when I spent ten years in LA chasing a dream instead of settling down, I blew my chances at a long, kid-free courtship.”

“So I'm the best you're going to get. I see how it is.”

“You _are_ the best I'm going to get. It doesn't mean I'm settling.”

“So...you really want to do this? I mean, I know we already kind of talked about it, but we were pretty shaken. I know I'm asking an awful lot of you.”

“You're not asking me to give up anything I actually care about.”

I couldn't argue with that. “So that's a yes, then?”

“I thought we were going to watch movies tonight, and not discuss plans.”

“You started it.”

“No I didn't.”

“Did too.” I stuck my tongue out at him like a child.

His mouth twitched before breaking into a smile and he shook his head. “Alright, what do you want to watch?”

“Didn't I say you got to choose? Besides, I have no idea what movies you _have_.”

His face turned thoughtful, and he finished off his glass of water. “What's your favorite Tarantino movie?”

“ _Inglourius Basterds_ , why?”

The look on my face must have betrayed what I was thinking, because he laughed. “You didn't really think I just spend all my time watching Shakespeare adaptations and former Oscar nominees, did you?”

“No...” I batted my eyelashes at him from across the table. “I think you watch all those weird little artsy indie films, too.”

“So it would surprise you to hear that _Pulp Fiction_ is probably my favorite movie ever?”

“Yes. Because the poster in your bedroom is for _Reservoir Dogs_ ,” I retorted, which surprised another grin out of him. “I love _Pulp Fiction_ , though. You have good taste...I mean, I already knew that, but hey. So can we watch _that_ tonight?”

I felt his long legs stretch across the space under the small table again, a bare toe touching the skin of my calf. I shivered pleasantly. “Yes,” he answered aloud. “Yes, yes, and yes.”

*

Dan made it through _Pulp Fiction_ , but fell asleep about half an hour into _Reservoir Dogs_. He'd probably seen it dozens of times, and his body was still recovering from trauma and medication; I couldn't fault him. I had enjoyed watching the films together, lying intertwined on his sofa, hitting the pause button occasionally to discuss a line, plot point, or something totally unrelated to the movie. Once we paused it and retreated to the bedroom for a while, but when we were done we pulled some pajamas on and returned to finish watching. By the time he fell asleep it was closing on midnight, and I was honestly amazed that I hadn't been the one to pass out first. But this was one of the few Tarantino films I'd never actually seen, and I was enjoying my boyfriend too much to want to fall asleep and miss anything. Yes, even though he was asleep.

I absently stroked his hair while watching the men on screen do horrible things to each other. I loved the way it fell at an angle over the top of his forehead, the short, crisp sideburns in front of his ears. I liked the dark, heavy lines of his eyebrows, and the three days’ worth of growth along his jaw and chin. I was captivated by his eyes, almost too dark to call brown when they were open. Right now I could just admire the way his eyelashes touched his skin, and the vague, slight movement of his eyes under the lids. Objectively, I supposed he wasn't really handsome. He was too tall and lanky, his features too sharp and angular, the permanent shadows under his eyes too prominent.

But he was mine, and that made him absolutely perfect.

*

“I can't do this.”

“What are you talking about?”

He gestured to his laptop screen. “This is laughable.”

I looked long enough to see he was surveying a page of job listings for the Lansing area. “You don't have to do this yet, pumpkin,” I told him, standing behind the chair and resting my hands on his shoulders. “Get your feet back under you first.”

I'd hoped that using the pet name from _Pulp Fiction,_ which I had playfully adopted last night, would mellow him a little, but no. He shrugged my hands off angrily, and turned in his seat. “My resume is a list of acting credits and then a decade on a Disneyland ride,” he snapped. “What employer in his right mind is going to look at that and say yeah, let's call _him_ in for an interview? I have literally no experience or skills that are worth anything outside of Hollywood. And I chased the dream for too long. Maybe eight years ago I would have had a shot, but now? This is just ridiculous.”

That was something I honestly hadn't thought about, and I was taken aback, mentally scrambling for something helpful to say. “So go back to school,” I suggested after only a beat. “There's several right in town, and I—”

Dan cut me off. “I am _not_ going to mooch off you for years while I get some boring degree! Besides, what difference would it make? I'd still be 36—or older, by then, almost 40—with no job experience. What a catch.” He snorted disdainfully. “The only thing I'm cut out to do is work the jungle fucking cruise ride. I can't quit.”

“I thought you said they were going to fire you anyway?”

He paused ever so slightly, then shook his head. “I'll figure something out.”

“So you're just going to be a tour guide forever? Work a job you hate until you die?”

“Yes.” He turned back toward the computer—just so he wouldn't have to look at me, I suspected.

“Stop punishing yourself,” I nearly snapped back, and pulled a chair up next to him. “You are really, really good at something, so you tried to find a job doing it. Where, exactly, is the shame in that? I don't know a lot of people that have that sort of courage.”

“It's not courage.” He still wouldn't look at me.

I raised my eyebrows, just in case he decided to glance my way. “Really. So it took no courage to move out here, where you knew practically no one, spend years barely paying the rent and putting yourself out there at auditions, and get up every morning to do something you hate in the name of someday, maybe, doing something you love?”

At least he turned his eyes to me again. “You make it sound noble or something. You weren't there.”

Scooting my chair closer, I tried to give a confident smile. “All I'm saying is that a man who can do _that_ is more than capable of starting over. You're still young. You have me. If you want to do it, you can.”

Dan slapped his palm into the table angrily, and then winced from the pain it must have sent through his wrist. “It's not that easy!”

“I never said it'd be _easy_ ,” I pointed out, slipping out of my chair and wedging myself on the edge of his. “Just that I believe in you.”

“Why?” he demanded. “What is there to believe in? What have I ever accomplished? I'm supposed to be rich and famous! I'm supposed to be _supporting_ a beautiful woman, not the other way around!” His voice cracked.

I hugged him hard and then kissed him, very slowly. When I pulled back, I rested my head on his shoulder and spoke. “And I was supposed to grow old with Martin Summers,” I confessed softly. “Just because I don't talk about it, just because I love _you_ now, doesn't mean that doesn't still hurt sometimes. This wasn't how I thought _my_ life would end up, either. Arranging a funeral with a kindergartener and toddler in the house...trying to explain to your precious little boys that they never get to see daddy again and hearing them cry and say, but I miss him...and the anger at the world that keeps you up at night, the tears that come out of nowhere when you think you've run out...”

I picked my head back up, and met his eyes. There were tears in them. “Look, I'm not...I'm not saying you don't have a right to be unhappy. And I'm not saying I'd rather have him back than be here with you right now. Just that the world doesn't give a damn about our supposed-tos. And everything can be taken away in an instant. So I try to focus on what I do have, instead.”

“Dan.” I cupped one hand around his cheek, stroking his unshaven face with my thumb. “I can't make you come. If you really can't do this, if you really want to change your mind, I know I can't stop you.” I swallowed hard, because I felt my own tears building. “But I can ask. Please. If you love me, if you meant what you said in the hospital, please come.”

He was crying, but he nodded. “Okay,” he told me hoarsely. “Okay.”

We kissed, hard and urgently, and a few of my own tears spilled over as I shut my eyes. They dripped down toward my chin, mixing with his, and with the moisture of our mouths. For a few moments our whole world was wet, and messy, and filled with so much emotion it might explode at any minute. Right now, the world that had robbed us of the lives we'd planned didn't matter. Right now the world was a good, warm place, filled only with each other.

*

It was our last night in Hollywood. Part of me had expected Dan to want to see some of his friends before he left, but he insisted it was easier to just disappear. He sent a few text messages to people I didn't know, but seemed satisfied to leave it at that. He sent his mom an e-mail, which he allowed me to read. It was even lower on details than the summary I'd given _my_ mom, and in it he came off as far more confident and cheery than he actually was—but he was taking the time to write her, which she'd probably appreciate.

He typed up a letter of resignation for his supervisor and the HR guy at Disneyland. One copy got printed, signed, and posted, while the other went attached to an e-mail that explained he hadn't showed up for work because he'd been in the hospital, and was now leaving for related reasons. He was shaking as he hit the _send_ button, and I stood with my arms wrapped around him for a long minute. Once he'd done it, he sat there and stared at the computer screen blankly for a while. Then he turned and looked at me with wonder in his face.

“I did it.”

“You did,” I agreed, hugging him tighter. “You don't work there anymore. For better or worse, you're just Dan Douglas now. No more Skipper Dan.”

Like a man in a dream, he stood up slowly. “I'm a complete failure, then.” Suddenly, his face cracked into a smile, and he started laughing. “I'm free!” He shoved me into the nearest wall and kissed me furiously—then just when I was starting to really melt into it, he stopped and laughed again. “I'm _free_! If I'd known it would feel this good I would have done it years ago! Jesus Christ! Who cares if I'm a complete fucking failure? I never have to tell anyone that Ginger snaps again! No more jokes about lions eating zebras! Fuck you, Bengal tigers! Backside of water, kiss my ass!”

It felt like my face might split open from smiling so hard. “It's too bad, really,” I said blandly, with a very poor attempt at a serious face. “You were awfully cute in that outfit.”

He rounded on me, still grinning. “Oh, you don't want to be able to move at _all,_ do you?”

I grabbed the waist of his jeans to pull him closer again, and tipped my face up toward him. “I really don't, no. But it's true. You were totally fuckable in that hat.”

“Only in the hat?” He was looming over me now, his whole body pressing into mine. His fingers wrapped themselves around my wrists, and lifted them against the wall above my head.

“ _Only_ the hat,” I repeated, both aroused and amused.

“You are not going to be able to walk for a week,” he growled in between kissing my neck.

“Oh,” I breathed. “Were you planning on carrying me to the car, then? ….In the hat?”

“If you say _hat_ again...” he warned.

“You'll what?” I whispered, arching my back so my breasts rubbed against him. “Spank me?

His fingers dug into my wrists. “I will _gag_ you,” he threatened warmly.

I gave him my sweetest smile, and stood on my tiptoes in an effort to kiss him. He met me halfway, and his fingers loosened their grip. I rocked my hips back and forth against him, and thrilled at the sound of his soft groan. He released my hands, and I instantly buried them in his hair.

“Dan,” I murmured when we broke for air.

“Hm?” He dragged me down the hall, and we tumbled artlessly onto the bed.

“I hated the hat,” I gasped in between stripping off my shirt and bra. “You are so much hotter like this, right now, than you could ever be in some stupid uniform.”

“I know,” he responded, and shut me up with another kiss.

*

We lost a good chunk of our evening to that particular dalliance, and wound up cramming bites of mediocre pizza into our mouths as we shoveled his things into suitcases and boxes. There were lots of clothes and some toiletries, which we were able to fit into his one large suitcase. A few of his books and movies fit in there, too, when we sat on it. The rest of the books, DVDs, old clothing, worn scripts, posters, and electronics, were unceremoniously shoved into cardboard boxes and reusable grocery bags. The furniture and all the non-perishables in the kitchen simply got left. As Dan pointed out—best case scenario, someone wanted it, and worst case, the landlord didn't give him his maintenance refund. Oh well.

Really, there was precious little that he seemed to care about bringing along. If we hadn't been doing it together, the experience would have been depressing. But holding out a slice of pizza so that he could take a bite while sealing a box, while _Kill Bill_ played in the background, made the experience pretty tolerable. In fact, I was thinking about where all his items would fit in around my house, and kind of enjoying myself.

It was late by the time we finished. Dan shaved and took a shower while I checked for any messages from home. Then we made love one more time—because after eight month of build-up, we now couldn't seem to stop ourselves—and fell asleep. I dragged myself out of bed early the next morning to shower, caffeinate myself, and pack up the last few things I'd still been using. Then I allowed myself about a minute of watching Dan sleep before gently shaking him awake. He brushed his teeth, threw his pajamas and toiletries in an already heavy backpack, and led me down to an office in the basement that I hadn't known existed. It wasn't the same man who had been on duty to help me pull him out of the bathtub, but I guessed this what where that guy had come from. At any rate, he explained his abrupt departure to the bored looking woman in there, passed her his keys, and had me write down the forwarding address.

That accomplished, he led the way to a little carport around the back of the building and unlocked a beige Camry that was still in remarkably decent condition. Then I remembered there was no snow, and thus no rock salt all over the roads, in California, and he didn't have children. Maybe the lack of rust and dirt wasn't so remarkable after all. He took off his backpack, and I set down the suitcase and heavy grocery bag I was carrying. Then I went back up for more.

He still standing by the boxes when I returned, looking frustrated. “These are the things you never think about when you're trying to kill yourself,” he joked bitterly as I approached.

“Oh?” I asked, dumping the boxes next to the rest of his luggage.

“I should have been thinking about my inevitable failure and the notion that stitches in my wrists would stop me lifting anything heavier than a loaf of bread. I should have realized I'd be making my girlfriend move my entire life into my car while I stood by uselessly.”

I grabbed his hand and squeezed it while laughing. “That would have required a _lot_ of foresight.”

“I guess.” He sat down on the edge of the trunk, and I went back in for another load.

It was lucky he didn't drive anything smaller. As it was, the trunk and backseat were both full by the time we were finished. I sighed in relief as I sank into the passenger seat, and looked over at him. “Look on the bright side, pumpkin. At least you're not too injured to drive.”

“I probably shouldn't be driving.” He cracked a smile. “But since I've decided to live, I don't think I want you to get us both killed.”

I held up my pointer finger. “I would like to defend myself, on the basis that you've never even seen me drive. However, if I had to deal with the roads around here I'd faint and we _would_ die, so it's all yours.”

“It _is_ mine,” he pointed out, turning the keys in the ignition, and we backed out of the carport. 

I watched him as we drove away from the apartment where he'd spent the last—how many years? Five? Ten? He did look back over his shoulder before we turned the corner, his face resuming a tired expression of pain and disappointment. Then we made the turn, and that was it.

“You okay?” I asked as he directed the car down busy, sunny streets.

His shoulders lifted and fell. “I can't look back. I can't stop and think about it now, it's already done.”

“You must feel _something_. How long did you live there?”

“Six years. And I only knew one of my neighbors by name. Every day I got up and stared at the Hollywood sign as I dreaded the day. I don't have a lot of good memories of it. Everything I care about is back there.” He jerked his head to indicate the rear of the car. Then he blinked, as if in surprise, and put his right hand on my leg. “Or right here.”

I smiled. “Hopefully you still feel that way after four days of travel. It doesn't bring out the best in me.”

“We could do it in three.”

“We already discussed this last night. If we try to do more than eight or nine hours a day, _I_ will slit _my_ wrists. Being trapped in a car is my idea of hell.”

“Are you exaggerating, or is it really that bad?” Aw, he looked concerned, poor man.

I put my hand on top of his, pressing my fingers between his. “I don't sit still well, and my legs might get twitchy. I may even get car sick, though that doesn't usually happen unless I'm in the back seat or the roads are really windy. But I hate flying even more. And I'd hate being without you even more than that.”

“You hate flying that much?” Now he seemed curious. I focused on him instead of the city outside the car window.

“God yes!”

“Then how did you handle it the last two times you came out here?”

“With difficulty,” I responded. “My parents were with us the first time, so I just medicated the hell out of myself. And last time I was so preoccupied with you, I didn't have a chance to worry about myself.” A smug little smile started to tug at his lips, and even though I was amused at his pleasure in the idea, I rolled my eyes. “Oh jeez, now you're going to get all full of yourself. Listen, mister, you're already an acting genius and sex god. Don't go getting a big head now just because I'm in love with you.”

He kept smiling.

After a second, my face split into a grin, too. If he was surprised that I'd put myself through all that just to save him, then he was still realizing that I really loved him. And it made him happy. Besides, let's face it, his ego had a lot of recovering to do before there was any danger of him getting a big head.

“It'll be an adventure,” I suggested hopefully. “Eight hours in the car, then we can stretch our legs, have dinner in a new city, and mess up the bed of some crappy motel room.”

“There's the optimism.” He squeezed my knee.

“It's easy to be optimistic _now_. You should have seen me four days ago.” I shook my head in wonder, amazing at how different the circumstances of my return would be from my departure.

“I'm sorry I put you through that,” he said softly.

“I'm sorry you _went_ through that,” I countered. “That you felt that trapped. I wish I'd come sooner.”

He shook his head. “It's bizarre, but I think I _had_ to do it. That shit people say about hitting rock bottom and then having some sort of awakening. I was miserable for years. I hated myself most of the time, I didn't have much I looked forward to, I'd have times when I'd be really angry or wish I was dead. But did I do anything about it? No. All I cared about was not having the solution that I wanted. I had to finally give up completely on all of it. I had to see those clouds of blood in the water and realize there are worse things than not being a movie star.”

I lifted his hand up to my lips and kissed it. “That's a hell of a wakeup call. But I guess I needed it too. Who knows how long I would have gone on deluding myself into thinking we were just phone buddies, because I didn't see any way for it to work out as anything else. I didn't want to admit how much I felt, because I knew it'd be messy. And then you scared the shit out of me and I realized there are worse things than messy.” I laughed shakily.

“What you're saying is that we're both idiots.” His laugh matched the giddy, uneasy tone of mine, and he tightened his grip on my hand.

“Oh well. Better late than never, eh? I can't believe we're here now. That I'm actually _with_ you, touching you, looking at you, instead of just seeing words on my phone.”

“I can't believe four days ago I was trying to kill myself,” he mused softly.

“I can't, either,” I answered honestly. The bandages were still in evidence on his wrists—I had re-wrapped them for him myself last night after his first full shower—but so much had happened in the past four days, the emotional journey made that nightmare seem like the distant past.

“I feel _better_ ,” Dan continued in a tone of profound disbelief. “Shaken, yeah, and I have no clue what to expect from here on, which is scary as hell. But it's...ah, I can't think of the word. I'm scared but I'm free. I didn't even know I _could_ feel like this.”

I grinned at him. “You killed the skipper.”

“I never knew murder could feel so good.”

“Easy there, Bundy.”

He laughed, and I felt amazing for making him laugh. “Tell me more about what the hell I'm getting into. Tell me about your house, city, family. I'm going to _be_ there in four days, there's still way too much I don't know, and we have nothing but time.”

Briefly, I leaned into his shoulder, enjoying the solidness, the heat and smell of him. “Nothing's really changed, has it.”

“How do you mean?”

“I still have to regale you with the details of my life.”

His mouth twitched toward a smile. “That's one way of looking at it, I guess. So? Go on.”

“I'll just make you look at my phone in the hotel tonight. I have about six million photos and videos stored on there that should give you a pretty good idea.”

“Six million? I think you may need professional help.” The seriousness with which he said that made me laugh all the harder.

“ _But_ since we're stuck in the car,” I began, “let me see...”

I began with telling him about Meridian Township, and MSU and the Capitol, and why the boys went to Haslett schools. That got me into our time living in Lansing, which I described in detail. By the time I got around to filling him in on my family, including my parents' and grandparents' backgrounds and the town I grew up in, we were out of Los Angeles and heading northeast on I-15. The landscape was barren and mountainous, so different from what I was used to, but the freeway stretch was only three lanes on each side.

Part of the reason it took so long was that Dan took an active interest in the conversation, frequently asking questions that derailed my narrative onto some fun little tangent. Still, when we stopped for lunch he had a good idea about the city and people he was heading toward. I was looking forward to showing it to him. We grabbed sandwiches, got gas, and found a place to stretch our legs. Dan didn't want to go too far from his car and all his belongings, understandably, but accompanied me on a ten-minute stroll around a strip-mall.

Either he was getting tired of the sound of my voice or felt I deserved a break, because he turned on the radio for the next stretch of road. Since we were outside of his normal zone, he couldn't get any of his favorite stations, but I poked buttons until I stumbled across _Lola_. The next few songs on the station seemed to meet his approval, too, though I didn't know any of them well. AC/DC came on next, and I knew that. I spared him my singing, but lip-synched happily to it.

I heard him sing for the first time. _Burnin' for You_ came on, and a minute or so in he started singing softly along. When he saw I was paying attention, he shrugged and went to regular volume. His voice was warm, smooth, and calming. Not the voice of a pop star or an angel, but a voice you'd want for lullabies. For a church choir. For reassurance. He had a pleasant, everyday sort of voice when he sang, the sort that made you feel vaguely warm and happy. I sat back in my seat and thought that I could listen to this all day. The desert sun poured into the car, making me feel sleepy and content. I had no good excuse to be tired, but I must have dozed off. My head felt fuzzy and unpleasant when I floated back into consciousness, and I drank some bottled water in an effort to fight it off.

“Have a nice nap?”

I yawned. “I suck at travel. How long was I out?”

“About an hour.”

“Sorry.”

“It's safe me to leave me alone with music and my own thoughts for an hour.”

“How are the stitches doing? You haven't taken anything today, have you?”

“It's not that bad. I took motrin this morning.”

“That was a long time ago. Do you need me to drive for a while?”

He glanced at me. “Not today.”

“Have a little faith! This isn't inner-city driving anymore. I can manage to not kill us if you need a break.”

“Saying things like 'I can not kill us' is why I don't have much faith.”

“Ugh, you're as bad as Marty. He never let me drive, either.”

“And if you're as bad as you say, there's a reason for that.”

I smiled. “I love you.”

“It's good to hear that. I'd hate for you to have regrets.”

I leaned way over to kiss him on the cheek and rest my hand along his neck. His hair was just long enough to brush the tops of my fingers. “No regrets.”

“It still doesn't feel real.”

“I don't suppose it will, until we're actually there.”

“I can't believe I never have to go back. It all happened so fast.” He had a cute little wrinkle of confusion between his brows.

Letting my hand slide around to his cheek, I cupped his chin in my hand. I wished I could turn his face to look at me, but he was focused on the road. “You never have to go back. Never have to wear the costume again, never have to say the lines again, never have to get on the boat again. As far as I'm concerned, you never have to fake a laugh again, either. I mean, you're stuck with _me_ now, but even with my awful singing and driving I like to think I'm better than all that.”

“Lots better.” There was a slight, comfortable lull in the conversation, and then he said “Okay, let's hear it.”

“Hear what?”

“The singing. You've built it up so much, I need to know how bad it really is.”

“I can't just _sing_. I'll hear how bad I am and chicken out. Can we at least find a song for me to sing along to?”

“If you insist.”

I started flipping through radio stations again, and by some miracle I found _Stacey's Mom_ playing. “Brace yourself,” I said, and gave him no further warning before belting out the lyrics. He winced, but made no comment until I was finished. “Well?” I demanded.

“I can live with it.”

“That's it, that's all you've got?”

“What else would I say? You did warn me.”

“You could say that my descriptions didn't do it justice. That you've gone temporarily deaf. That you've changed your mind and would rather spend the rest of your life talking about the back side of water than hear that ever again.”

“All good reactions, but see, you've already thought of them. Once in a while, it's nice to do something unexpected.”

“So I can sing more?”

“Just don't wreck any of my favorite songs for me.”

“That's fair.” I nodded.

We listened quietly for a little while. My legs started to hurt from all the time stuck in the car, so I shifted positions repeatedly and sighed. Three more days of this. I reminded myself why I was doing it.

“What's your middle name?” I asked out of the blue.

“Evan,” he answered after a beat.

“Daniel Evan Douglas?” I asked, for confirmation. He nodded. “That's a good Scottish name if ever I heard one.”

“Probably because fifty years ago my family was all still in Scotland.”

After that he regaled me with everything he knew about his mom's family, and how his grandparents had wound up in Oregon. That branched into hearing more about his grandparents themselves, who had been right across town from him for most of his childhood. I tried to imagine what Dan himself had been like as a child, and when I ventured a guess he laughed slightly. “I was shy. I was the kid who clung to my mom and sobbed the first day of kindergarten. Playing pretend was the way Mom persuaded me to come out of my shell.”

“I have new respect for her. Smart lady.”

“She is.”

“What's her name?”

“Audrey,” he answered, and went on to tell me more about her. It was crazy, that there was still so much we had to learn about each other.

I did remember to break off our endless conversation in the late afternoon, when I thought my kids would be home from school. I might not be home with them, but I was damned if I was going to let a day go by without at least letting them hear my voice. Wes told me again that he missed me, and I nearly cried, but other than that Dan listened in on me having a nice little chat with my parents and sons. They seemed like they were surviving pretty well without me so far.

A little past six—or rather seven, since we were in mountain time now—we made it to a Comfort Inn in a little town called Beaver. It wasn't particularly fancy, but that had never been a priority. Getting out of the car was a priority. I lay down on the bed immediately, trying to stretch out my cramped muscles. Dan turned on the TV without showing any signs of caring what was on, and flopped down beside me. “Do we really have to go back out to get dinner?”

“On the one hand, I'm hungry and I don't think there's room service here. On the other hand, who fucking cares, don't make me go near the car again.”

“Thank you,” he sighed in relief.

“We can always get Pop Tarts from the vending machine in the lobby if we get desperate,” I offered, forcing some optimism into my voice. “Right now, I just want to lie here.”

“Thank you,” he repeated. I rolled over to curl up against him, and we rested in silence for a little while. After fifteen minutes or so that turned into less restful but more exciting activities, which left us both feeling much better. I let him have the shower after that, opting to just wipe off and check my phone; I somehow doubted we were done for the night, and what was the point of showering if I was only going to get dirty again?

I thought about that for a minute, and then went and joined him in the shower.

*

As promised, I spent most of our time in the hotel showing him various pictures off my phone—which didn't really have six million photos on it, but there was still a pretty good selection of the past year. I was able to show him all the videos of my kids, so that he was armed with a more complete knowledge of their goofiness and abilities. I showed him Lake Michigan in summer, and he told me about the ocean beaches in Oregon. I showed him sledding, and asked if they even _had_ snow in Medford. (He assured me that they did, just not for quite as long as Michigan.) I showed him my parents, and my friends, so that he had faces to go with the names. It was a long process and would have been really tedious if we hadn't broken it up with conversation, bad TV shows, and granola bars from the vending machine downstairs.

The next day was more of the same. Even the scenery was similar for most of the drive, though we were on a different highway now. We listened to the news and discussed politics, went back to talking about family for a little while, and quoted monologues to each other for an entertaining few minutes. God, he was good. I told him more about my college days, and more about Marty. It felt weird to share all these memories of my husband with him, because no one wants to be in competition with a dead man—but I couldn't tell him about me and _not_ tell him some of it, either. To counter it, I did everything I could to flatter and reassure Dan of how happy I was to be with him.

And I was. The more time we spent together, the more I realized what a huge mistake this could all have been. I'd slept with him, I'd talked with him, I'd known him well enough to give my heart away to him—but none of that was really a guarantee that we'd be able to stand each other in person for more than a few days. It was a lot like that Romeo and Juliet conversation we'd had, what felt like ages ago now. They're obviously crazy about each other, but is it real love? The kind that you can build on? Yet I'd now spent three days nursing Dan back to health, and we'd been trapped in a car together for another two full days, and it wasn't getting old. Granted, that was only a start, but it _was_ a start.

We made it to Boulder that night, and even though we were beat I persuaded him to find a hiking trail and take a short stroll in the mountains before turning in for the night. It was beautiful, and I felt substantially better from the exercise. I would have happily kept going if the sun hadn't started to set on us. After that we were famished, and found an Indian carry-out place in town. I shoveled paneer into my mouth while we watched game shows, and this time I let him have the shower all to himself. I checked his stitches afterward, and he insisted the pain wasn't too bad anymore. It looked like the wounds were healing up fine, at any rate. I insisted on coating them in his special ointment after that, and wrapping both his wrists up in fresh bandages.

That made me feel both tender and physically connected, and I accidentally turned it into an agonizingly soft and slow make-out session, which in turn became sex that was neither soft nor slow. He had to keep his hand over my mouth for most of it, out of consideration for the family we'd seen enter the room next to ours, but of course that didn't stop the sounds _he_ made, which drove me crazy. I pulled him fiercely into a kiss that muffled both our moans...probably not enough, but at least we were making an effort. I fell asleep curled up against him, utterly spent.

Day Three he let me drive some, because the flat green scenery outside the window was enough to put anyone to sleep. Maybe because it was mostly on a two-lane highway, I didn't do a terrible job for the three hours I was behind the wheel, and I could tell he was pleasantly surprised. We listened to a lot of music, and he pulled up a bunch of showtunes on his phone and played them for me while I was driving. I sang along, and though his wincing and raised eyebrows said a lot, he never complained once.

We drove longer than usual that day, because I was determined to make it to Des Moines. As a result we got in late, ate a pizza in the room, and took a brief, dark stroll around the outside of the hotel before repeating the same bedtime routine as the nights before. Then we lay in the dark, sleepy and content with each other, and I told him that tomorrow night we'd be sleeping in _our_ bed. We were nervous, and disappointed that we wouldn't be having loud nightly sex after this, but also intensely relieved that the trip was almost over.

The last day seemed to drag on forever, but finally we got into Michigan, and around 7:00 EST we entered the home stretch. I turned off the GPS and started just giving him directions from the top of my head. I got excited as we turned off of Park Lake Road and onto the residential streets I knew like the back of my hand. It was still nighttime in spring, so everything was mostly dark and wet, but street lights showed actual green grass, and trees that weren't entirely bare. “Almost there,” I said with false cheeriness. I was so excited to be home, but full of anxiety about it, too. For better or worse, Dan was about to see my home and meet my family.

He'd gone quiet as well, so he was probably feeling the same sort of nerves. I reached out and grabbed his hand. He squeezed it in return, and I cast him a quick smile. “They're going to love you.”

“Then why do you seem so nervous?”

I held his hand tighter. “Because I _am_ nervous. It's a big deal, you know.”

“I know.”

We lapsed into silence for the last few seconds of the journey, and then we were pulling up in front of my own house. “This is it.” I turned in my seat to look at him properly, and he killed the engine. “Welcome home.” Taking a deep, shaky breath, I added “I can't believe we're doing this.”

“You made it sound so not-insane, when you proposed it last week.” He swallowed noticeably. “Maybe it was the drugs they put me on.”

“Well, if we're insane, at least we're in it together.” I gave him a quick kiss, and unbuckled my seat belt. “Come on.”

Both kids were out the front door before we even finished opening the trunk. I heard the door, almost immediately followed by “ _Mommy_!” I set down my bag, ran toward Wesley, and met him halfway with a big hug. “I missed you,” he told me as I wrapped him in my arms.

I hugged him tighter, but also looked over his shoulder for his brother. “I missed you, too!” I told him warmly. My parents were out the door by then, too, and Xander had reached us. I released Wesley in favor of pulling my oldest son into an embrace. “It's good to see you, love. Did you have fun with Granny and Grandpa?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, but he seemed distracted. I followed his gaze and saw him mentally sizing up Dan, who was hovering awkwardly by the car. “Hi,” he said happily, stepping toward him with an outstretched hand. Ever my little politician. “I'm Xander.”

Dan managed a smile, and came forward to shake. “I know that,” he answered amiably. “Your mom showed me videos of you.”

“Uh-oh,” Xander grinned. “Which ones?”

Since there was no imminent disaster there, and Wes was sticking close to me, I approached my parents and took the time to hug them, too. I thanked them yet again for taking the boys. They insisted it was no trouble, but they both looked tired—and though they didn't say anything outright, they were watching Dan with interest as he conversed with Xander. “I'll introduce you in a second,” I told them, sensing everything they weren't saying. “And then you can get home and get some well-earned rest.” I turned back to Wes. “Want to come say hello?”

He'd always been the shy one. “Okay,” he said reluctantly.

“He's really nice,” I assured him, taking his hand and walking back toward the car. “And you know what? He's never been to Lansing before, so he's going to need you to help him find all the cool stuff.” We'd reached them, so I smiled and prompted, “Wes, this is Dan.”

“Kinda rhymes with my name,” Xander laughed.

Dan squatted down so that he was almost on level with Wesley, and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Solemnly, Wesley accepted his hand and shook it. “Hi.”

Dan glanced up at me, and then looked back to Wes. “Is it alright if I stay at your house for a while, Wesley?”

He nodded. “My mom told me you were coming.”

“Well, yeah,” he acknowledged quietly, “but it's your house, too. And you don't know me.”

Wesley, thankfully, didn't respond to that. Instead, he studied Dan with a degree of interest. “Mom said you've never been to Lansing before.”

“Nope. Never even been to Michigan.”

“Wow, really?” This, apparently, blew Xan's mind. “Never?”

“Never.”

“How do you like it?”

“I just got here.” Dan straightened back up. “But it seems nice.”

I went back to the car and grabbed the bags that I knew held our essentials. We were wearing jackets, because I knew what the weather in Michigan was like. This meant that Dan's bandages weren't obvious, which generally made things less awkward, but it also made me feel conspicuous as I unloaded his overloaded backpack by myself. Hopefully my parents just attributed it to me letting him get to know the boys. At any rate, they approached him rather than me, and I decided the rest of Dan's belongings would survive sitting in the car a little longer. I hauled our bags over, ready to make more introductions.

My dad was already shaking his hand. “Sharon must care about you a lot,” he said bluntly. _Oh please, Dad, no_ , I thought anxiously, but he left it at that. “Nice to meet you. I'm Joe.”

Dan, I realized, had turned on his skipper persona. It wasn't terribly different from his regular personality, but he was more charming, more confident than I would have expected. And I recognized the smile. “It's a pleasure, Joe,” he said easily. “I'm sorry for all the trouble I caused, but I'm happy to be here. Sharon's pretty special.”

“Yes, she is,” said my mom with a smile. “She's got a big heart.” She gave him a quick hug. “I'm Lou.”

I was torn between cringing and smiling as I watched them. “What do you say we move this party inside?”

“We need to get home,” my dad countered. “We could use a rest, and I don't really need another tour of the house.”

“I'll just go grab our things,” my mom agreed, darting inside ahead of us.

“Very tactful of you, thanks,” I murmured to Dad as we moved toward the front door.

“We _are_ tired,” he told me kindly. “And I'm sure you are, too. That's a lot of travel.”

“We'll come visit soon,” I promised, hugging him one more time. I gave Mom another one, too, when she reemerged, but then I let them go. The boys had heard the word “tour” and were already pulling Dan into the house, eager to show him around.

I followed them quietly, listening to their excited babble as we went from room to room. Occasionally I'd meet Dan's eyes over their heads, and give him an encouraging smile. Now that my parents were gone he seemed quieter, more thoughtful, smaller somehow, and I was relieved that he was being himself around my kids. Maybe kids were easier to do that with. At any rate, they seemed to all be getting along alright thus far. I couldn't wait to get him aside later and hear everything that was going through his mind.

I couldn't wait to get him alone later for other reasons, too. Watching him interact with my kids was blowing up my ovaries.

Xander was showing off his bedroom. “This is Snowball,” he said, gesturing to the cage that held his pet rabbit. Snowball herself was not in evidence—probably asleep inside her little house, waiting for an introduction later that would let her be the center of attention. “This is my piggy bank and my desk,” Xander went on, “and those are all my games...ooh do you want to play one?”

“Maybe in a little bit,” Dan answered with a barely-repressed smile. “Let's finish the tour first.”

“Okay. This is Wes...”

“Let _me_ show him!” Wesley shouldered his brother aside and opened his bedroom door. “This is my room,” he said proudly, stepping inside, and paused. “Where are _you_ going to sleep?”

“I...uh...” He looked to me for help. There was really no way around this one; I could set him up in the guest room for show, I supposed, but that would feel like a lie. The kids were bound to notice that he always wound up in my bed by morning, and I was in favor of honesty.

“Dan's my boyfriend,” I explained, hoping that this was indeed the best policy. I slipped my hand in his, as evidence. “He'll sleep in my room.”

“He's your boyfriend?” Wesley seemed more puzzled than anything. I guess the idea of his mommy having a boyfriend had never really occurred to him.

“Yes,” I agreed, sharing a sideways smile with Dan. He still looked worried, but the expression was muted.

“But you said he'd never been to Lansing before. How'd you get a boyfriend out west?” Xander was equally puzzled, but for more advanced reasons.

We exchanged glances again, and I shrugged ever so slightly, giving Dan permission to answer for us if he wanted. He lifted his eyebrows in a silent _Are you serious?_ I smirked and shrugged again.

“We met when you went to Disneyland for vacation,” he answered after thinking for a second. “We've been talking on the phone a lot since then.”

Xander's brow was furrowed as he worked this all out, then he rounded on me. “How come you never told us?”

I winced. “Well, we weren't really _dating_ for most of that time,” I attempted to explain. “We were just friends.”

Dan sat down unceremoniously on the floor. “This is weird for me, too,” he said evenly. “I love your mom, and she said she wants me here. But it's a big change for you, too, and you didn't get any say in it.”

I sat down next to him and studied my kids seriously. “I didn't mean to surprise you with all this,” I told them. “Normally I would have talked to you before I started dating somebody, and especially before I asked anyone to come live with us. I do value your opinions, a lot.”

“So why'd you go out there last week?” Xander demanded. “Without telling us?”

“That was an emergency,” I said.

Dan took his jacket off, and showed them his bandages. “I was really upset. And I got hurt. Your mom came to help.” He was peeling back the bandages now, letting them peek at his stitches.

“Wow,” Wesley commented, clearly impressed by the gore.

“What happened?” Xander demanded, also enthralled.

I was going to let Dan decide how much of that to answer. I slipped my hand back into his.

“I cut myself,” he said simply. “It's not something you should ever, ever do. But I was really upset, and sometimes grown-ups do stupid stuff when they're upset.” He looked over at me, and I saw love in his dark eyes. “If she hadn't come, I might have died.”

“Do you feel better now?” Wes asked, looking concerned.

“And that's when you fell in love with her?” Xander asked at the same time.

“No,” Dan managed a tired smile. “I was already in love with her. And Wesley, the answer is yes, but not all the time, not yet.”

“But that's why I invited him here,” I contributed. “He didn't have very much that made him happy out there, and I realized how much I wanted him to be _here_ , with us.”

“Huh,” said Xander thoughtfully.

“Think we can give it a try?” I asked, and I could hear the hope, almost a plea, in my voice.

“Okay,” Wesley said agreeably. Now that Dan wasn't a total stranger anymore, he was much more open-minded. “Since Mommy loves you.”

We all looked at Xander. After a minute, he nodded. “Mom's never brought a boyfriend home before. You must be pretty special. Sure, we can try.”

I hugged them both, hard. Then I hugged Dan for a nice long time.

And then Wesley said “So you want to see your room?”


	5. Chapter 5

Why had I been so worried about this transition? There was nothing to it.

Alright, not _nothing_. There was the headache of finding Dan a therapist, and watching him struggle to find things to do with himself in the evenings while I was preoccupied with the boys' activities. There were still the bouts of insecurity and depression, the habit he had of cleaning the house without asking me, and occasionally some jealousy from a couple of kids who had gotten used to having my undivided love and attention.

But mostly, it was so easy that it stunned me. By the time our initial discussion and tour were over, it was almost bedtime for the boys. I let them pry him with more questions and show off Snowball while I dragged the remaining boxes, bags, and suitcase from the car inside and up to my bedroom. When I finished, they were all in the living room watching TV together. I joined them for about five minutes, but after that we were out of time. I left him downstairs while I tucked in the kids and read Wesley a story, then tiptoed back down to join him until I knew they were asleep. I found him perusing my DVD and book collection, and sat down quietly beside him. I told him that he'd done a wonderful job tonight, and he responded that it wasn't nearly as bad as he'd expected. I asked what he really thought of my home, and he answered that he was looking forward to the full tour—of the town, in daylight, tomorrow—but that my house seemed like an absolute palace to him. We talked downstairs for about fifteen minutes longer, during which time I showed him some of my old yearbooks, but we retired for the evening as soon as all was quiet from upstairs.

In this case, retiring for the evening didn't mean anything beyond collapsing into bed. I think we both intended to do more, but it had been a long day and the bed was comfortable and warm. I curled up with my head on his shoulder and his arm around me, and fell asleep.

The next morning my alarm went off as usual. Dan sat up as well, looking for a clock to hit, but I told him to go back to sleep. He blinked stupidly at me, then remembered where he was and that he didn't have to get up and go to work. I kissed him, and he lay back down and was asleep almost at once. I, on the other hand, had to make lunches, make coffee, shower, get dressed, wake kids, feed kids, and drive kids to school.

And deal with the kids. A nagging sense of guilt tickled the back of my mind as I went about my usual routine. As Xander had remarked the previous night, I'd never brought a boyfriend home before. I hadn't had many in the past four years, and those I _did_ hadn't lasted very long. On the one hand, this did demonstrate to the kids that I thought Dan was pretty damn special, but on the other hand it meant the only guy they had to compare him with was their father. And that they were really unprepared to deal with an extra adult male walking around their house and sleeping in their mom's bed.

I saw Wesley peeking into my mostly-dark bedroom as he brushed his teeth, watching the sleeping lump that was Dan with an unreadable expression on his little face. Xan was more direct. “It's weird,” he told me as he shoveled cereal into his mouth. “You disappeared for a week. It was really sudden. And then you bring _him_ back with you, and now he's going to live with us? He's sleeping in your bed and we don't even know him.”

I sighed and nodded. “Again, I'm sorry, sweetie. It's not the way I would have done things, if I'd been able to plan it.” I stopped packing lunches and sat down opposite him with my coffee. “If I'd realized I loved him sooner, or maybe if I actually thought he'd move out here...because that's a big, scary thing to do, you know? He had to leave his job and his home and everything to come here. I didn't think he'd do it, just to be with me. Anyway, I thought it would never happen, so I didn't bother letting you get to know him before he moved. And I see now that was a mistake.” I spread my hands apologetically. “But what can I do? You _will_ get to know him, and I think you'll like him.”

“What if we don't?”

I studied him carefully, trying to figure out if this question signaled trouble or if he just needed some motherly reassurance. “If you really hate him—I mean, if you guys are fighting all the time or he ever hurts you or Wes—then I promise I will listen to you. You are my first priority. But please, try to like him, won't you? I don't want to have to make a choice like that.”

My son smiled, and wiped milk off his chin. “Of course I will. He seems nice. And you _should_ have a boyfriend. A bunch of my friends have divorced moms and they all got married again. You shouldn't be alone forever.”

I went around behind his chair and pulled him into a backward hug. “I am so lucky to have you!” I kissed the top of his head, and he shook his head to brush me off. “Thank you. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” My heart melted. He really was the sweetest kid, when he wasn't leaving stinky socks all over the house for me to pick up. “He looks familiar,” Xander added as he went back to his cereal. “But I can't figure out why.”

This revelation didn't quite surprise me; he had an amazing memory. “You _did_ meet him once,” I admitted. “Last summer.”  
“I did?”

I nodded. I felt bad giving away Dan's secret, but it would have to come out eventually. “He worked on the Jungle Cruise. Remember the one with all the animals?”

“Yes!” His eyes lit in excitement. “That's it! He was the guy on the boat! He was funny! We even got a picture with him!” He jumped up, running over to the library where I stashed all our photo albums, and pulled out the one from last summer. “Wes!” Wesley was busy watching TV, and ignored him. “Wesley! Come here!”

“What is it?”

Xan was flipping through pages as he spoke, and by the time his brother actually paused the Netflix show and got up, he'd found what he was looking for. “Wow, it _is_! Wesley, look, who's that?” he asked, jabbing the page with his finger.

Wesley looked at it, then up at me, then back at the picture. “Is that the guy upstairs?”

I leaned over them to look at the picture, even though I'd opened that album a few times on my own in the past months. Xander was flashing the peace sign and giving an over-the-top grin, while Wesley waved at the camera. Between them was a familiar tall figure in dark khaki shorts, a matching shirt, and a safari hat. His dark hair peeked out from underneath, his smile understandably forced, and it was undeniably the “guy upstairs.”

“His name's Dan,” I reminded Wesley as I nodded. “See? You've met him before.”

“Wow,” he murmured, impressed.

“What do you think of him?” I asked, now that we were on the subject.

“He's quiet,” Xan answered, oblivious to the fact that I'd been asking his brother. “I think he's a little scared of us.”

“Well, I told him your opinion mattered,” I retorted, and he giggled. “And he doesn't have any kids or nieces or nephews, so he has to remember how to play.”

“How long is he staying?” demanded Wesley.

I tried not to wince. “I don't know. I'd like him to stay a long time, but we'll have to see how it goes, right? Do you like him?”

“I guess.” Wes shrugged and went back to his granola bar and cartoon show.

I glanced at the clock, swore quietly, and left Xan to peruse photos while I finished throwing lunches together. I realized about five minutes before we had to be out the door that I didn't have a car to drive them to school in, having left mine at the Capitol City Airport more than a week ago. I ran upstairs, turned on the bedroom lights, and started going unashamedly through the pockets of Dan's clothes from yesterday. His car keys wound up being on top of one of the boxes we'd brought into the bedroom last night; I found them about ten seconds before giving up and shaking him awake to ask. I should have thought of this last night! Hopefully he didn't mind me borrowing his car.

I was glad Dan had let me do a bit of driving on the way back to Michigan, because it meant I wasn't throwing my kids into a totally unfamiliar car—just one without Wesley's booster seat, and that was forgivable for one short ride to school. I got Xander to school on time, and Wesley was only a minute or two late. With all that finally accomplished, I drove back home and re-entered a much quieter house. I hung the car keys up by the door before going upstairs, slipping out of my clothes, and sliding back into bed beside my boyfriend.

My _boyfriend._ Jesus, I was dating a Julliard graduate. The reality of that hadn't really sunk in yet. Everything had happened so fast, and now here I was, lying in my bed at home next to this amazing, talented, sweet man. Dan Douglas. My live-in boyfriend. I lay on my side and silently enjoyed the tanned shade of his skin, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the little crows feet at the corners of his eyes. I let my eyes wander down the lump his body made under the covers, liking the shape of it.

He didn't show signs of waking up any time soon, and as the minutes crept by my rapt attention turned into drowsing. It felt so right, lying next to him, hearing him breathe and feeling the heat from his body. At some point he must have moved, because I was abruptly awake again for no discernible reason. I let out a deep, slow breath, stretched, and rolled into a shape that was _also_ very awake.

“Hi.” He smiled at me almost shyly.

I felt my cheeks pull up in response. “Hi. How'd you sleep?”

“Good.” He fanned a yawn before slipping his arm around my waist. “How long was I out?”

I wriggled closer against him, reveling in the way his arm fit around me and enjoying how his eyebrows raised slightly when he realized I was naked. Neither of us had gone to bed naked.

“The kids are at school,” I purred, letting my own hands drift down toward his butt. “We have a little over five hours.”

“Oh.” He blinked at me, and I swear I could see the arousal kindling just from watching his eyes. What was it about them, exactly? They seemed to get darker, almost black, and something about the lids...or maybe it was—

He moved his face closer to mine, and suddenly all I knew was a barrage of sensations. Heat, moisture, the softness of his lips and the way his tongue brushed against mine—the vague taste of toothpaste and sleep—the faint and pleasant scratch of his chest hair pressing into my skin—the subtle, reassuring smell of him—the almost inaudible sounds we were both making in the backs of our throats—the hard, throbbing spot that pressed through his boxers and into my thigh until my hand moved around to grab it—a burst of excitement that seared up through me as one of his hands caressed my breast—

“So tell me,” he growled, and his voice was both predatory and irresistible. “Do I make it last the _whole_ five hours?”

The shallow quickness of my breathing would have betrayed me, even if I hadn't been arching into his hands. “I was hoping to do a _few_ other things with the time...we really need to get my car from the airport...it has Wesley's booster seat....but you know...maybe an hour...if you wanted to drag it out...”

He squeezed my chest, then rolled his thumb slowly back and forth over my nipple. “Only an hour?”

My voice caught in my throat, breaking forth in a strangled cry after a few seconds. “I don't know if I can handle more than that....”

Dan kissed me again, and I forgot about protesting and focused instead on getting his boxers off. By the time he pushed me over onto my stomach, my breath was coming in sharp, shrieking gasps. When he got behind and grabbed my hips to pull me up onto my knees, I moaned loud enough that if the kids had been home, we'd have been in a very awkward situation. And when he pushed all the way into me, I started screaming his name.

By the time we collapsed forward into a very damp sheet, my throat was dry and bordering on sore. “That was nice,” I sighed happily when my breathing had returned to normal and Dan had rolled over to lie on his back beside me.

“ _Nice_ sounds too...” He searched for the proper word. “Calm.”

I laughed softly at that. “You're right. But I feel nice and calm _now_.”

“I think of you as always being nice and calm.”

I turned my head so I could look him in the eyes, and did a terrible impression of myself during sex. “Oooh, oh, Dan, yes, _yes_! That's _calm_ to you?” 

He flashed me one of those rare grins. “The _rest_ of the time. Being around you just makes me feel good.”

I pecked him on the cheek. “You're sweet. Thanks.” After a moment of lying together in peaceful silence, I forced myself to sit up. “So. We have maybe four hours left till I pick up the boys from school. What do we do first? Do you want to go for a walk? See the sites of MSU and the local Target? Take a nice hot shower while I make breakfast?”

“I'm starving, actually. Let me at your fridge.”

“You don't want me to make anything?” I was somewhat disappointed. I liked cooking.

“Cooking takes time.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and grabbed his boxers from the floor. “Food first, then shower.”

I was busy drying off my thighs with some tissue. “Alright. Go find something edible...then tell me if there's anything I should put on the grocery list for breakfast _tomorrow_. I really need to hit the store, now I think about it. There wasn't much for the kids' lunches today, and I have no idea what I'm making for dinner.”

“Is there milk?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” He stooped back over the bed and gave me one slow, heart-melting kiss, then saw himself out of the room. 

I finished cleaning myself up, pulled my clothes back on piece by piece, and went down to join him. He was already almost done with a bowl of Golden Grahams when I got there, but I sat down opposite him at the table anyway. “I barely even know what you like to eat,” I said in a mix of wonder and embarrassment. “It's like we're still strangers in some ways.”

“Not the ways that matter.” He took another large bite with evident relish.

I had to smile at that. “So you like cereal,” I observed, grabbing a piece of loose paper and starting to make a list. “Anything in particular?”

Slowly, a grocery list took form. Much of it was what I already knew I needed: more milk, fruit, Goldfish crackers, juice boxes, chocolate, bread. But I learned that Dan drank coffee, too—he just wasn't addicted to it the way I was. I found out that he usually had toast with peanut butter for breakfast, and loved oranges. He liked hamburgers, stir-fry, lasagna, and omelets. And pretzels. I got the impression that he would have lived on pretzel sticks and fresh oranges if he could, the way I'd live on cookie dough and ice cream in a perfect world.

I allowed him to go upstairs and shower after that, since he hadn't had one since the night before last. While he was in there I got a clean towel out of the closet for him, then lay down on the bed to check the news on my phone and wait for him to get out.

He emerged from the bathroom while still toweling himself off. His hair stuck up in multiple directions, and I could imagine how wet it would feel if I buried my fingers in it. I wanted to do that very much, but I waited and checked facebook while he wrapped the towel around his waist and shaved. At last, he grabbed some clothes, hung up the towel, and came over to sit on the bed next to me. I gave into temptation and ran one hand along the side of his head as he pulled on a pair of socks. He'd combed his hair straight by now, but the dampness remained. I slid myself neatly into his lap, facing him, and wrapped my hands behind his neck.

“So,” I said, looking adoringly up at him, “what are we doing with the rest of our time?”

His arms had already looped around my back, and he studied my face. “I thought we were grabbing your car and going to the grocery store?”

“You actually want to come grocery shopping?” That was something I'd gotten used to doing either by myself, or while marshaling children.

He shrugged. “If you're showing me the town, it's as good a place as any to start, isn't it?”

“Ideally we should leave it till last,” I countered, “so we can bring the refrigerated stuff right home.”

“I guess,” he agreed skeptically. “Though I don't think it's going to thaw too fast in this weather.”

“It won't, but it's the principle of the thing.” I got off him, leading the way downstairs. “That's how it's got to be done in summer, and I'm a creature of habit.”

“Got it.” He followed me down the steps and into the front hall, where I shoved my feet into my shoes.

“I think we'll start with a quick walk around the neighborhood, drive out to the airport to get my car, drop it back off here, and head to the, uh, _shopping district_.” I made myself laugh with that description. “We'll save the city tour for tomorrow.”

“Works for me. I don't know the town, so I'll have to trust your judgment.”

I was still giggling slightly. “I can be your personal tour guide. Meridian Township is a little short on jungle animals, but I think I can be a pretty decent skipper.”

Repressed amusement stilled his face, and I knew he was trying not to laugh. He cocked one eyebrow, then stepped toward me almost menacingly until I backed into the wall. “If you wanted me to force myself on you again, all you had to do was say so.”

I tipped my chin up defiantly. “Well then it wouldn't have been force, would it?”

He put one hand against the wall on either side of my head, and leaned in close to my ear. “It never is, though, is it. I don't force anything. There's no resistance.”

I raised my own eyebrows in mock innocence. “You saying you want me to start fighting back?”

Dan looked me up and down, considering me carefully. “You seem a little too turned on by that prospect,” he remarked dryly.

“Pumpkin,” I said bluntly, “if you tied me up and gagged me, I would probably soak the bed.”

He actually jerked his head back a tiny bit—caught off guard by my directness, I suppose. “Whoa.”

“Don't act surprised.” My eyes were burning into him, and even though he'd hardly touched me my heart was racing. “You could tell I like having you in control. Bondage is just an extension of that.” I stepped away from the wall, putting my body flush against his. “I figure now that we're living together, you should probably know I'm fucked up, too.”

I was close enough now that I could feel a definite twitch of interest from him. “It's not that fucked up. It's just not anything someone's ever asked me to do before. Are you sure you trust me like that?”

I took his hand and guided it inside the front of my jeans and downward. “What do _you_ think?”

His fingers came away damp, and the adorable surprise on his face quickly turned into something much darker. “Do you have rope?”

My breathing was already accelerating as I kicked my shoes back off. “In the bedroom.”

He followed me slowly back upstairs, and I pulled open the bottom drawer of my dresser. In with my pajamas was a small selection of tools: several lengths of thin rope, a bunch of handkerchiefs, duct tape, various clips, a vibrator, a ball gag.

Dan stared at me. “Did Marty use this stuff?”

“Some, not much. I most just use it to do half-assed jobs on myself when I'm home alone.”

He clearly liked that answer, picking up a piece of long nylon rope and taking a step toward me. “You're not going to be home alone too often anymore, though.”

I was tingling. “And I have a feeling you're not going to do a half-assed job.”

He stood there and stared me down for a minute, letting me think about what he might do and making me painfully aware of how wet I already was. Then he glanced back down at the drawer, and scooped up the duct tape and a handkerchief. “What do you do with those?”

Briefly embarrassed, I felt my cheeks heat as I stared at my feet. “Shove them in my mouth or tie them around my head to use as a gag, mostly.”

“You,” he observed, with a hint of theatrics in his voice, “have a filthy mind.”

“Well, yeah.” I looked up and met his eyes again. “Isn't that partly why you're dating me?”

“Nah,” he shrugged, winding the rope thoughtfully in circles around his left hand. “I just like your tits.”

I curled my lip, trying for an angry face that dissolved into giddy laughter halfway through. “You'd better be kidding.”

“Okay, okay, I don't really like them. They're terrible, in fact.” He took another step closer, grabbed the hem of my shirt, and pulled it over my head in one crisp, strong movement.

He took _another_ step forward, forcing me to back up. I bumped into the bed and sat down on it, hard. He put one hand on my chest and pushed me slowly over backward; he followed me down, squeezing insistently as he brought his lips to mine.

We lost my jeans next, followed by my bra. He left my underpants on for some reason, sitting back on his heels to study me thoughtfully. “Okay, first...” A rough shove on my shoulder rolled me over onto my stomach, where he yanked my hands behind me. He tied them together at the wrists, first. Panting, I told him to do it tighter, so that it cut into my skin a little. He told me to shut up—but the rope did bite tighter into my arms as he continued to wrap it up my forearms. He was almost up to my elbows when he ran out of rope, and it was certainly not a half-assed job. My shoulders were pulled back by the binding, so that my chest was arched out and my arms completely immobilized.

I was face-down now, so I couldn't see much of what he was doing, but when the movement stopped I guessed that he was thinking again. “How does this make _you_ feel,” I asked curiously.

Abruptly he seized me, rolled me back over, and pressed himself against me. His eyes were lit up, his whole face predatory and almost crazy. I could feel him shaking, and he moved one of his hands back to my bare breasts. “I can't believe it's taken me 36 years to do this,” he muttered, and bit gently into the side of my neck. “But it wouldn't be like this if you hadn't asked. If you didn't want me to...” He shook his head.

“I do, though,” I insisted, just in case he needed to hear it again. “This is exactly what I want. _You_ are exactly what I want. I trust you.”

“Good.” He kissed me, hard, biting into my lip at the end and pulling a moan out of me. “Now shut up, honey bunny.”

The handkerchief was almost too big to fit in my mouth, even after he balled it up, but another one pressing into it and knotted behind my head solved the problem. My hips bucked on their own. I still had my panties on, he hadn't even touched them, but I could feel myself on the precipice of a shattering orgasm. He must have known it, because he took his damn time about everything he did after that—even though I could feel how badly he needed it, too. He ran his hands and mouth over me slowly, becoming faster and harder as excitement took him over. At times it was almost painful, but I liked it that way. And _he_ must have liked the muffled sound of my cries that made it past the gag, because his breath was jagged by the time he shoved me onto my stomach again, kissing the back of my neck and shoulders before pulling my underwear off, a process which seemed to take far too long.

Then my knees were moved under me and apart, raising my hips to the right height as he knelt behind me. He held onto my bound wrists to keep me in place, groaning in pure, base pleasure as he slid inside. Back out, slowly. In again, deep and hard enough to make me scream into my gag again. God, it was filthy. It was degrading. It was incredible. It was trust. It was indescribable. It built, and I needed the release of climax, but I never wanted it to end, either.

Maybe because part of me didn't want it to end, I didn't climax properly until the moment he did, when his hands tightened and the pace intensified and I felt him spasm inside me. Convulsions of ecstasy wracked me, slowly dying down as the seconds ticked by. I was still shaking on and off when Dan got control of his trembling hands and undid the knot at the back of my head. I spat the gag out and moved my mouth around, trying to exorcise the dry, unpleasant, stretched feeling.

It was a while before I felt able to speak, more from the physical and emotional toll of earth-shaking sex than because there was any significant damage to my mouth. I lay, exhausted, on my stomach as my lover recovered himself, sat up, and started untying my arms.

“Holy shit,” he said softly as he tugged the knots free. “I, uh...I don't know what came over me there. Are you okay?”

I rolled enough to my side that he could see my face. “Are you serious? Am I _okay_? Dan...” I shook my head, at a loss for words. “I don't want to knock anything you've done up till now, because I still remember our first date and get hot. I still remember _earlier today_ and get hot! It's all been incredible, so incredible. But that is probably some of the best sex I've ever had in my life. I'm just hoping you enjoyed it, too.”

He sighed in relief, and his face brightened into a slow, full grin. “That is exactly how I feel. You said it perfectly. Thank you.”

“Really?” I grinned, too. “That much?”

He finished untying my wrists, and pulled the rope free. “ _Yes._ ”

“Ah, the joys of being sexually compatible.” I rolled over all the way, snuggling close and kissing him. “I mean, we couldn't do that sort of thing every day. But _damn_. We'll have to do it again, that's for sure.”

“Too bad your bed frame doesn't have posts,” he mused, running his hands through my hair. “I could do a lot with bedposts.”

My eyes widened, and I looked to see if he was serious. It appeared he was. “Right. Once we're done with grocery shopping, Meridian Township, and the sites of the Capitol and MSU—which will take a while, if we keep spending half our time fucking like rabbits—we are going shopping for a new bed frame.”

*

“So tell me...” I tried to think of something to talk about that we hadn't already discussed at length during the past four days in the car. I hated that we were back in his car _again_ , even though going out to the airport was kind of a necessity. “Tell me about Kevin.”

“Kevin?” He thought for a moment, and then a smile found him. “Oh Christ, Kev. He was crazy.”

I smiled, too. “I'd gathered that much already. But go on, details.”

“Details?”

I rolled my eyes. “You know, details. How'd you guys become friends? Did he really love theater like you, or was it just one of those things he got roped into by being friends with you? What sort of trouble did he get you into back when you were kids? What's he do for a living now?”

“Oh, _details_.”

I snorted in amusement. “Turn left up here.”

“Okay, Kevin...I guess we got to be friends in sixth grade. Start of junior high. He sat next to me in homeroom, and he was always poking me when I was trying to read. Telling me weird stuff.”

“Weird stuff? Right lane, then you're going to stay straight for ages.”

“Just....weird. Out of the blue, stuff like 'you know in France they eat frogs?' or 'hey, did you know back in the 1950s barbers would stick leeches right on people on purpose?”

“In the 1950s? That can't be right.”

“We were thirteen, of course it wasn't right. And I could be remembering that wrong anyhow. Pretty sure he did talk about leeches a few times, though. I don't know why he kept telling me this stuff, except that I was stuck sitting next to him and he was so excited to share this random crap with somebody he didn't care if I was interested.”

“He'd literally poke you while you were reading?”

“Sometimes he'd throw paper at me instead, if I didn't answer him right away.”

“Charming.”

“I told you he was crazy. He was funny, though. And smart, holy shit he was smart. He didn't quite make salutatorian, but I never saw him get anything besides an A and he was big into NHS. And he had charisma. Weird as fuck, but he had charisma.”

“So who got into drama first?”

“Me. Mom signed me up for those kids theaters programs when I was still in grade school, and by the time I met Kev I was already reading Shakespeare like a pretentious little asshole.”

“Me too! High five.” I held out a hand where he could see it. He shook his head and smiled first, but then he touched his palm to it. “The pretentious asshole reading the Bard in middle school, I mean. Not meeting Kevin. Obviously.”

“Yeah, I got that,” he remarked dryly. “Anyhow, as soon as I told him I was auditioning for the crappy school play, he decided he was going to try, too, and it turned out he was actually pretty decent. He just kind of...decided we were friends, and I didn't have too many friends back then, so I went along with it. The more we hung out, the more he pulled me into his weird little world. So...” He thought for a minute. “He loved hip-hop and rap, he was always listening to that stuff. When Eminem came on the scene in high school, he was Kev's instant idol. He was fantastic at math and science, helped me with physics homework. _Always_ talking about girls, Jesus Christ he was horny. One time...” He started to laugh.

I lifted my eyebrows and waited for him to explain. He just kept laughing to himself for a minute, and I realized I was fine with that, too. I really liked the sound of him laughing.

At last he shook his head, rubbed his cheek, and told me. “He was always switching props during rehearsal, right? Bringing out a plastic rat instead of a book, or a book instead of a cup, or...” He started snickering again. “ _Or_ , his sister's dildo instead of a sword.”

“Oh my God.” I smothered my own laugh.

“This thing was _huge_ , too. I mean Christine was in college by then so I guess that's her business, but if I was her parents I would have had some serious concerns after looking at that thing.” He paused. “If Kev really did steal it from her drawer like he said. Maybe he just _bought_ the damn thing, though I don't think they sell that crap to minors.” He started to laugh again. “He tucked in his shirt and hid it, and then when we got to the big fight scene with Tybalt he whipped it out instead of his sword....”

He trailed off in laughter again, and I laughed harder too because I could just imagine it.

“Was your director pissed?”

“Mr. Bradley? _So_ pissed,” he agreed, still smiling at the memory. “Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?” He mimed pulling out a sword—or a dildo, I suppose—and snorted. “Even I broke character. I was laughing so hard I was crying.”

“ _Even you_ broke character?” I asked. “You took it pretty seriously even back then!”

Dan nodded, this time a little sadly. “I always knew what I wanted to do. Sometimes I think that's why Kevin goofed off so much. I took it so seriously, he felt like he couldn't rest until he'd made me forget what I was supposed to be doing.”

I smiled. “It sounds annoying and endearing. What other ridiculous antics do you remember?”

He went quiet for a minute, sifting through memories, and I felt that weird pang you get sometimes when you realize you can never _quite_ know another person, because it's impossible to articulate all the inner workings of your own brain. I had time to direct him through a few more turns, putting us in the final stretch toward the city airport, before he gave me anything else.

“He liked to rap his lines,” he said, and though he didn't laugh outright I could see it at the corners of his eyes. “Especially with Shakespeare. He'd come on stage and shout something terrible like 'Mercutio and my boy Romeo in the _hizzouse!_ ' and then act like he was dropping some sick rhymes instead of iambic pentameter. 'Ah, then I see Queen Mab has been with you.'” He broke off to do a half-assed imitation of some beat-boxing before continuing, “She is the fairies' midwife and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman.” More beat-boxing. “You get the idea. He was a lot better at it than me.”

I giggled. “That's probably just as well.”

“Yeah...” He grinned briefly, but it suddenly turned into a wince. “What was _really_ bad was when he used our real names.”

“What do you mean?”

The wince turned into a grimace. “Like when we walked into rehearsal together and he announced us loudly as K-Fletch and D-Doug.”

Even twenty years later, he still looked embarrassed at the memory, but he finally started to smile when my laughter got so hard I couldn't breathe. “D-Doug,” I repeated breathlessly when I thought I'd composed myself, and immediately lost it again.

Dan waited patiently for my giggles to subside. I had to force them back under control before he missed the turn for the airport parking lot. “Exactly how white _was_ this kid?” I asked, wiping at the corners of my eyes as I pointed into the long-term parking lot.

Dan shook his head sadly. “ _So_ white. I'll show you pictures later, I have albums worth of theater stuff crammed in one of those boxes.”

I nodded, my eyes scanning for my car. “That's what I thought. Oh, there it is. Um...” I remembered that I hadn't vacuumed the Sharonbus in some time, and the boys had yet to outgrow their propensity for throwing wrappers all over the floor or spilling juice on the seats. “Please remember that you love me.”

“Well now I've got to see,” Dan remarked, and left his Camry running as he climbed out to peek into my vehicle. I followed apprehensively. He glanced in the backseat, peered in the front seat, and looked back at me. “That's it?”

“You don't find it disgusting?”

“Yeah, it's gross, but you have kids. Besides, this is nothing on Kevin's car.”

I grinned, leaning over my hood. “ _More_ stories of Kev...what was it you said? K-Fletch?”

“Kevin Fletcher,” he smiled and shook his head in continued embarrassment. “I got my license first, but he got his own car a year before me, so he drove us everywhere. You had to shove empty McDonalds bags out of the way just to sit down. There was no room for your feet because of all the empty soda cans on the floor. You couldn't get out of it without feeling like you needed a bath.”

I pulled the door of my own messy car open. “You should really write him, you know. Tell him you've relocated.”

“I will. So we're meeting back at your house?”

“Can you get yourself back there okay?”

He gave me a patronizing stare. “My phone has a GPS just like yours does, honey bunny.”

I stepped in to give him a quick kiss. “Then I'll see you back at the house in fifteen minutes.”

I blasted _Paul's Boutique_ in the car on the way back, and it struck me that I was happy. That wasn't really so remarkable; it was spring now, after all, and I generally was an upbeat sort of person. But that didn't change the fact that I _was_ happy. I was home; I had my favorite music playing; the sun was shining and I'd only needed a light jacket to leave the house today; I had two amazing kids; I'd spent the morning in bed with the most wonderful man on earth.

I hopped out the car and waited, basking in the April sunlight, for the thirty seconds it took for Dan to pull the Camry up next to me. “You up to more driving?” I asked, and sat down in the passenger seat after getting the affirmative answer I'd expected. “I hope you don't get sick of me giving you directions. I don't mind driving, if you'd rather.”

“Sharon.” He turned in his seat and arched his eyebrows at me. “I spent a decade getting around _LA_. I think I can handle Meridian Township.”

“Oh. Right.” I blushed. “Sorry.”

Dan smiled and reached out to run his fingers along my braid, lingering on the very end. “Don't apologize. I've had worse insults.”

He was still playing with my hair, and it was suddenly very difficult to do anything besides sit there and make bedroom eyes at him. “So do you think you can be happy here?” I asked when a coherent thought finally entered my head. “I know it's a lot different. And I know...” I tried to find words for what I'd been thinking of the other day, about how unplanned and crazy this whole thing was, how easily it could go wrong. “I know this is a lot to deal with. New area, new house, new kids, new girlfriend who you can pretty much never get away from. And I'm not sorry, but I admit we kind of rushed into it. If, after a few weeks of living here, I don't know, the novelty wears off, or...”

“ _Novelty?_ ” His eyes flashed. “ _Now_ I'm insulted. I said I _love_ you. This isn't some....diversion for me. Just because I was in a hospital bed doesn't mean I didn't think it through. I've wanted you for months. I've wanted out of LA for months. Don't act like I'm out of your league, like you're some crazy whim. What, you think I'm going to take off the minute things start being normal and sane and good? Is that who you think I am?”

“No!” I exclaimed, dismayed. “God no! I think you're incredible. Not just talented, but incredible all the way through. I didn't think you'd get bored, not like that. I'm sorry.” I made a genuine sad face. “I wasn't trying to insult you. I just wanted to be sure that being around me 24/7 wasn't going to make you go 'oh _this_ is who I'm dating?'”

“You have no place being insecure,” he scolded me, but the flash of anger was already fading.

“Neither do you,” I said, mustering a smile.

“Do I _seem_ like I'm sick of you?” he asked, a little plaintively.

My smile got a little confidence behind it. “No,” I admitted.

“Good.” Dan sounded both pleased and relieved. “Because this is the closest I've been to happy in a long time.” He turned back in his seat and put the car in gear. “Come on then, show me around my new home.”

I glanced at the clock in the car, which I had conscientiously reset when we crossed back into EST yesterday afternoon. “I think we only have time for the grocery store at this point. I have a feeling the grand tour is going to take weeks to complete.”

“That's okay,” he told me implacably. “We have weeks.”

If he wanted mundane, it didn't get much better than picking out produce at our little local Kroger. The fact that there were only two “organic” aisles in the whole store seemed to stun Dan a little bit, and he was relatively quiet as I picked out snack food for the boys' lunches. When we went to the produce aisle he complained about the state of the fruit in stark disbelief until I reminded him that during winter all our produce had to come _from_ California (or maybe Mexico). He sighed and picked out some oranges. You would have thought someone had just run over his puppy, I swear.

But he did perk up as we moved into the other parts of the store, and I ordered him to buy anything he thought he might eat in the next few days. We started to discuss dinner plans, and I was caught off-guard by his offer to cook something tomorrow night. The kitchen was _my_ room, and I'd never had to fight someone for it before. But despite all his talk about the great food in LA, he had apparently done some of his own cooking over the years, and wanted to contribute something now that he was living in my house. If he wanted to assemble some Asian chicken salad and share something he'd made with us, I mean, who was I to shoot that down? I just hoped the kids would eat it. They liked chicken and oranges these days, so maybe....? We tried to remember all the ingredients we needed for it, as well as the stir-fry I was planning on making, and added those to the cart.

There was just barely enough time to run home, put away the groceries, and leave Dan to poking through his boxes of stuff before I had to hop in my own car and pick up Xander and Wesley. On the short drive home, Wes regaled me with funny stories from his day, and Xan reluctantly divulged a few details about what he'd learned. Funny how he could recognize Dan eight months after meeting him, but couldn't recall a thing about what he'd just spent the day studying.

Speaking of things he could remember, he hunted Dan down almost immediately after getting home. “I remember you now,” I heard him exclaim from the steps while I was still unloading backpacks. Oh no. I started up the steps behind him. “You were our tour guide on the boat in Disneyland! You were hilarious.”

“What?” Dan sounded mortified. I climbed faster.

“Why didn't you tell us that yesterday? It's so cool! I told all my friends today about how my mom's dating a guy from Disneyland.”

“You didn't.” Definitely mortified. I groaned inwardly as I entered the room.

Dan was sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his long legs stretched out in front of him, carefully sorting through stacks of books from one of his boxes. Xan was sitting on the foot of the bed, kicking his legs energetically.

“Xander...”

He didn't even notice me. “How cool is it working there every day? Was it hard to quit? Did you get to hang out with all the characters?”

“Uh....” _Dan_ noticed my presence in the room, and looked at me with panic written across his face.

“Can you tell me some of the jokes again?” Xander asked, and I groaned aloud.

“I should have seen this coming,” I said mildly to Dan, sitting down beside my eldest son on the bed. “Sorry. Hey Xander?” He looked at me curiously. “Did you really tell all your friends already?”

“Well yeah! It's exciting.”

I sighed. “And yet when I asked you about your day ten minutes ago, you told me nothing happened.”

“But it didn't,” he objected logically. “That was all about stuff that happened at _home_.”

I cringed, and glanced sideways at Dan again. “Right. Well, listen. I think it's really awesome you're excited about me and Dan dating.” I offered him a big smile, to prove it. “But I don't think he really wants to be known as _a guy from Disneyland_.”

“Why not?” It was really kind of sweet, that his eleven-year-old brain couldn't fathom a reason why someone wouldn't want to be forever labeled that way.

I looked at Dan helplessly, and shrugged. “He thinks you're cool.”

Wordlessly, he put his face in both hands and shook his head.

Oh goody, I got to explain this one myself. “I'm glad you think it's a cool job,” I told Xander, giving him a reassuring sideways hug. “You are so sweet. But it's not really...that's not what he thought he was going to wind up doing for a job. The jokes are funny when you hear them once or twice, but what do you think it'd be like to say them over and over and over again every day? Like when Wesley used to watch the same movies over and over again?”

That hit home. “Ugh,” Xan shuddered.

I nodded. “You think that'd be fun?”

“No,” he shook his head vehemently. “Sorry, Dan.”

Dan looked up, still flushed with shame. “Nah. You were being nice. I'm glad you had fun on the ride.”

Xander nodded, very serious now. “So I guess you don't want to tell the jokes again?”

My boyfriend managed a very pained smile. “Not just now, sorry.”

“That's okay.” Xander sat down on the floor beside him, looking over the books politely. “So what job _did_ you want to do?”

God bless that kid. I went back downstairs to check on Wesley.

*

Day Two At Home started off very much like Day One had. Wesley woke up cranky and uncooperative, but we still got out the door on time without too much shouting on my part, with both of them successfully fed and dressed. Dan had mostly kept to our room after dinner the previous night, organizing his belongings and watching Netflix on his laptop rather than intrude on my time with my kids. I was of two minds about that, but the larger part of my mind appreciated it; eager as I was to include him, you can't just insert someone fully into a family and expect it to go smoothly. This allowed the kids (and me) time to adjust to his presence a little more gradually. He was _there_ , but he hadn't intruded in every part of their normal routine yet. As evidence of this sacrifice, he was barely mentioned during breakfast or on the way to school.

After dropping my boys off, I went back and once again found Dan still sleeping. After the boys had gone to bed last night, we'd stayed up together pouring through the old photo albums he'd uncovered. I guess my questions about Kevin had prompted him to dig up more of his personal history, so I got to see a whole bunch of pictures from his high school days. Most of them were from shows, but there were also a handful of completely stupid snapshots, including one with him and Kevin (light brown hair, short, bright blue eyes) that looked like the cover of a low-budget rap album. One of them that I especially liked had a whole group of his theater crowd eating pizza, with teenage Dan caught in gales of laughter over some long-forgotten joke.

As we'd poured over the old albums and yearbooks he'd told me tidbits and stories to go with the images, so that by the time we went to bed I had a good picture in my mind of the kid he'd used to be. I imagined a serious and quiet young man who loved books and movies, who didn't date much but was fiercely loyal to his friends, who was most comfortable wearing someone else's skin. A guy who knew at an early age that he was really good at one thing, and pursued it with all his energy. A teenager who took everything seriously, even his dreams…especially his dreams. Who had no clue that he could light up a room when he was happy. Who could occasionally get really goofy and drop his guard to do something truly stupid and hilarious.

A part of me had gone to sleep loving that kid. The way _my_ Dan held me as we slipped off into the land of dreams...of course I wouldn't want a teenager holding me that way. And everyone has to grow up. That's healthy and right. I was happy with the adult version of him that I had, the one I actually got to know. But all the same, it made me a little wistful for the fact that I'd never known that kid.

At any rate, we'd been up late. We hadn't had sex because I wasn't very confident in my ability to keep the volume down, and didn't think waking the boys up unintentionally would be a very good early impression to make on them. So we snuggled instead, and given how late it was by then, passed out pretty quickly. That meant that when I climbed back into bed beside him the following morning, he woke up ready to go. It was worth the wait.

_So_ worth the wait.

“So what's on the docket today?” he asked as we stretched out, still partially entwined and damp from the experience.

“Well first, I need to follow through on the promise I made before we left the hospital, and call up my psychiatrist's practice to see if anyone wants to take on a new patient.” I kissed his jaw, hoping to lessen the blow of that reminder. Besides, despite having shaved yesterday morning he was getting slightly scruffy already, and I found the scruff very sexy.

“A psychiatrist, or a therapist?”

I shrugged against him. “You don't want to cover your bases and get both?”

He paused. “You're teasing me.”

I kissed his throat. “As long as you're seeing someone and getting better, I don't care _what_ they are.”

“I'm already seeing you and getting better.”

“Dan...” I put a slight warning in my voice this time, and let my hand drift down to the stitches in his arm. “As sweet as that is, I'm covering _my_ bases. I can't magically fix everything you've gone through, and I'm not going to risk seeing you like that again.”

He wrapped his arms around my back, holding me even closer. “Guess I can't argue with that.”

“Good.” I kissed him again, and again, until I worked my way back to his mouth.

“So then what?” he asked, before we could get too excited. Probably smart on his part—we could use at least a minute or two of recovery before we went at it again.

“Well, you've seen our shopping district already.”

“All I saw was a little strip mall with a Kroger and Target.”

“Right.”

“Oh my God.”

I laughed. “There's a little more, if we head out toward Lansing. There's even a Whole Foods, if you're still feeling homesick for something organic and ridiculously expensive. Maybe we should just go on a drive around the city.”

“But that's not what you had in mind?” He fingers had somehow found their way back to my bare breasts, and even though the touch was light I was still suddenly having a hard time concentrating. This might _not_ be a very long break.

“Well, I was...going to give you a list of what I think of as the...the top attractions. And let you choooooo— _Dan_!” I could feel him stiffening against my thigh. “How do you _do_ that?”

“Do what?” His fingers skated lightly over my nipple again. His face was impassive, but his eyes were so dark they could have hypnotized me.

“Recharge this quickly. You should have gone into porn.”

That actually made him _laugh_ , and he rolled off of me onto his back. “Right. Me. Porn.”

My face twitched with suppressed mirth. “It's not that ridiculous. You're hot. You're good at acting. You're good at sex.”

That got me one raised eyebrow for a few drawn-out seconds. “I'm not hot. As to the other two, I think a career in porn would kill any love I had for either of them.”

“Honestly, I'm kind of relieved to hear that,” I smiled. “I don't understand the women who get jealous over their guy admiring another woman, or watching porn, or for things that were over before you even met. But I have limits. I'm not sure how I'd handle my new boyfriend giving it to someone else all day. Besides—” I trialed my hand slowly down over his chest. “Then you'd have nothing left over for me.”

“Thank you,” he said in a tone that made me look up sharply.

“For what?”

“For reminding me that there _are_ worse careers than being a skipper,” he answered seriously, and I relaxed. “I still can't believe I don't have to go back there, you know.” He tucked his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling fan. “It doesn't seem real.”

“Why, do you miss it?” I asked, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.

He turned his head slowly toward me, with a stare that gave me pleasant shivers. “Oh, so you want to go buy a new bed frame today. And maybe some more rope.”

“You're just finding excuses. And trust me, that does not work well as a threat.”

“It's not a threat.” He rolled smoothly back on top of me. “You're hot when you're teasing me.”

He'd pinned one of my arms in the process, and I wiggled it free so I could touch him. “Don't tell me a thing like that unless you want me teasing you around the clock.”

“I know what I'm doing.” He kissed me slowly, effectively ending the conversation.

“I love your body,” I told him when, about twenty minutes later, I regained the power of coherent speech. “Did I tell you I spent months fantasizing about you?”

“Not that explicitly, but yes.” I'd worn my hair in a loose ponytail today, and he'd pulled out the tie halfway through our second run. Now he ran his fingers through it, smoothing it out with a tenderness that somehow drove home the reality of his love.

My cheek was resting on his chest, but I was able to move my hand up to his face, where his hair lay across his forehead. “I love your hair.” I moved my hand down over his ear, along his jaw. “I didn't fantasize about your five o'clock shadow because you didn't have it when I met you, but I totally love it. And your eyes.” I brought my fingers to his lips. “I thought about these a lot, lying in bed alone at night. And this.” My hand went down to his chest, and I ran my fingers through the dark little curls there. “I love your chest hair.” I pressed my hand flat. “I love your heart.” I turned my head inward, to kiss his chest. Then I let my hand go down his arm, carefully skating around the stitches until I could twine my fingers in between his. “These, too. I spent a lot of time thinking about these. You have great hands.” I realized I didn't want to let go, so I ran my foot up his calf instead. “And legs. You've got _long_ legs. How tall are you?”

“Six-one,” he whispered, giving the impression that he didn't want to interrupt me. “Anything else?”

“Well, only the obvious,” I answered with a giggle that broke the mood. “I did spend a _lot_ of time thinking about that.”

“Good to know,” he murmured. “You want to just stay right here all day?”

“Yes,” I laughed, “but I don't think we should. I want that new bed now. And maybe we can put a TV over there, what do you think? We could watch movies in bed at night. I like watching movies with you.”

“That's a noble goal, but it requires me to sit up and put clothes on instead of lying here touching you.”

“You know,” I said thoughtfully, “you have a point. There's no school tomorrow, we should enjoy this time while we can.”

“Is tomorrow really Saturday?”

“Pretty sure. I know, the schedule has been way off this week. But I have to know these things, as a mom.”

“So Xander and Wesley are here all day?”

“I'm not going to kick them out of the house when they just spent a week with my parents. No, more than a week. Nine days, I think? I flew out there last Monday.”

“What do you want me to do all day, then?” The question wasn't accusatory, but genuine.

I kissed his chest again. “You're allowed to get in the way _sometimes_ , you know. I was thinking we could all go to the zoo together.”

“You have a zoo?”

“It's tiny, but yes. I like it there, and the weather's supposed to be nice. The kids can play on the playground afterward.”

“That...doesn't sound bad, actually.”

“Great! Maybe we'll go out to dinner afterward, what do you say?”

“Stop spending money on me.” He sighed, but continued stroking my hair. “It makes me feel...” He clearly couldn't think of the right word, and stopped.

“I don't want to give you cause for any more bad feelings,” I told him, “but I'd _like_ to go out to dinner with you and my family. I'd _like_ to get a new bed frame so you can make me scream when the kids aren't around. I _like_ buying groceries and showing off my crappy little hometown to you. So I won't force it on you, but do know that I don't see it that way at all. I'm doing it for myself, really.”

“And I would love to argue, but I don't have the self-esteem to pull it off yet,” he said, making me choke on a laugh.

“Then clearly we need to work on building up your self-esteem. How about...another few minutes lying around followed by cheap brunch here, a call to the psychiatrist, a walk along my favorite nature trail, and if there's any time left we'll go furniture shopping. And when it's all accomplished I'll remind you that you're the best boyfriend ever.”

“You really like to plan things out, don't you.”

“You're just now figuring that out?”

“I know. I'm slow.”

I poked him in the side again.

* 

The zoo went very well; the restaurant was awkward. Dan didn't have a lot of experience going to chain family restaurants, and _no_ experience going there with children. The boys didn't seem to mind too much; they had fries and chicken and a tablet with built-in games at the table. But Dan didn't seem to know what to talk about in front of them unless he was actively talking _to_ them, and for some reason my spectacular actor had trouble feigning interest in the electronic version of _Monopoly._ I spent my time hopping back and forth between conversations, watching my boyfriend become frustrated and depressed.

“They don't like me,” he said flatly when we were in bed that night.

I curled up against him, resting my head on his shoulder. “They got to go out to dinner. They thought it was a great night.”

“I felt like a third wheel.”

“They're always like that when we go out,” I assured him. “It's not personal. Next time just ignore them until they talk to you.”

In the dim lighting, I saw his eyes slide doubtfully toward me. “Easy for you to say. You're their mom. You don't have to impress them.”

“And neither do you. Just be normal. Be yourself. Be there. They'll turn around one day and realize they love you, too.”

He shook his head. “I'm not their dad.”

“I take it you don't have a close relationship with your mom's husband.”

“Derek?” He sighed. “They've been married five years. I was already a skipper by the time she met him. I like that he makes her happy, but I don't really know him.”

“That's sad,” I said quietly. “Have you tried?”

He turned his head fully and stared me down. “I've been avoiding my _mom_ as much as possible for the past decade. No, I didn't go out of my way to get to know Derek.”

“If I was your mom, I'd kick your ass,” I admonished him, but hugged him as I said it. “Anyway, that means this is totally different. You can have whatever sort of relationship you want with Xander and Wesley. You're taking it slow, you're being considerate, you're trying. Now just calm down and let it come naturally. They'll love you.”

“Really?”  
“Yes,” I insisted. “I know, it's a weird experience. But you're doing great with them, trust me. Especially considering you told me you're no good with kids.”

I felt his shrug. “You were kind of right, the other day. It _is_ more than I bargained for. I knew you had kids but even after you showed me all the videos and that...I didn't really realize they'd be _people_. People I'd kind of like.”

“Boy, you sure know all the lines,” I teased, hugging him again.

“I _want_ them to like me,” he explained fretfully. “I didn't realize I'd care about that.”

“Oh.” I smiled into his chest. “Now that really is about the best thing you could possibly say. Thank you.”

He sighed again, but shifted his arm so he could tighten it around me. “No helpful suggestions from their mom?”

“I already _gave_ you some. Be patient. Be there. Be yourself. And try not to take offense when they totally blow you off, because they do it to me, too. Just give it time.” I paused. “Seriously, you don't know how happy it makes me that you like them.”

“So I made you happy?”

I answered him with a kiss. “How about we go to the museum tomorrow?”

“What kind of museum?”

“The kids' museum, of course. Well, I guess that's not necessarily of course...they like the Michigan history museum every now and then, though they've seen it so many times they just kind of run through the place. We should go there on our own instead. And sometimes they want to go to that pretentious art gallery on campus for reasons I will never understand. You'd probably like it, though.”

He wrapped his hand around my wrist, and actually cracked a smile. “Are you saying I'm pretentious?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “You lived in LA. And New York. I can suffer some weird modern art if the city boy in you desperately needs to be surrounded by other forms of art for an hour.”

“I'm going to pass on that for now,” he answered dryly, and I giggled. “Tell me more about the kids' museum.”

“Very hands-on exhibits. There's a light and color room which is pretty cool, and an area called Flow that lets you play with the power of water. There's a great playroom for little kids, too, but they're both too old for it now. It'll be nice to have someone else along, actually, because the hardly ever stay put at the same exhibit for very long. You can choose a kid to follow around, and play with some of the science while you're at it.”

“Sounds alright. Except that you say 'choose a kid' but you mean 'go with Xander.' There's no way Wes will run off with me.”

“You're probably right,” I mused. “Even as a baby, he'd give strangers the stink-eye, and as a toddler he'd hide from people he didn't know. The fact that he's even willing to speak with you is really...wait! Have a Nerf fight with him and lose. Repeatedly. Which means pretending to die.”

“At the museum?”

“No, at home. Once he's killed someone, he usually regards them as worth having around.” This remark was met with silence, and I snorted. “Yes, he's a weird kid! But it's like an unspoken initiation. Almost all the adults he likes have done it.”

“So if I _die_ , Wesley will like me.”

I grinned, and let my hand crawl up to his cheek. “I love you.”

“ _I_ love _you_ ,” he responded, but he sounded thoughtful. “It almost makes me glad I had to work all those years as a skipper.”

“So you could meet me?” I felt my face heat with pride and pleasure, but shook my head. “Not worth it.”

“I said almost,” he corrected me, but his body language contradicted him a little bit. He was radiating love right now, I could feel it like a heater. And like a heater, I was drawn to it, wiggling against him as if I could somehow get closer and soak more of it up.

Oh, wait. There _was_ a way I could get closer.

“Want to try doing it quietly?” I murmured in the direction of his ear.

“Weren't we just talking about how I want Xander and Wesley to _like_ me?” he murmured back.

“That's not an answer.” I rolled my hips slowly against his leg.

“Of course I _want_ to,” he replied shortly. “I'm just doubting it can be done.”

“Gag me then,” I offered, and rolled my hips again.

“Stop that.”

“Come on, please. We were quiet when you got out of the hospital, remember?”

“That was a little different.”

“You're really not budging, are you,” I said in surprise. When he didn't answer I sighed. “Okay. I can't fault you for wanting to _not_ traumatize my kids.”

“Just until they like me,” he offered in consolation. “And once they're back at school, I'm going to wreck you. When does that bed arrive again?”

“Monday. But don't get too excited, we still have to put it together. How are you with tools?”

“I did set building too, you know.”

“How sad is it that that hadn't even occurred to me! I just think about you being center stage.”

“I learned the ropes just like anyone else, honey bunny.”

They were stupid pet names; I hadn't really expected them to stick. But now that they had, I absolutely loved them. “Did you guys make jokes about screws and drilling all the time, too, pumpkin?”

“Universal law of theater,” he answered with authority. “You have to make jokes about all the screwing that goes on during set building.”

“Perfect.” I sighed sleepily, and rubbed my cheek against him. “Then let's do some set-building on Monday.”

*

“Ha, got you!”

The Nerf dart bounced off Dan's shoulder, and like a good sport he crumpled backward onto the nearest sofa, clutching at the imaginary wound. Wesley ran over and shot him again in the heart while he was down.

“Oh,” Dan panted, sounding genuinely injured, “I die, Horatio.” He stretched his arm out weakly toward Xander, who barely smothered a surprised giggle. Obviously struggling to get an elbow under himself, I might have believed he really _was_ hurt if he hadn't still been spouting Hamlet. “The potent poison quite o'er-crows my spirit.” Panting, he fell back, putting his hand to his head. “I cannot live to hear the news from England, but I do prophesy the election lights on Fortinbras.” He pulled in a deep, shaky breath, and Wes lowered his weapon while looking to me in concern. “He has my dying voice,” Dan went on, sounding both sorrowful and spent. “So tell him, with the occurrents, more and less, which have solicited.” He pulled in another slow, agonized breath, and grabbed at his shoulder again. “The rest...is silence.”

He collapsed completely, letting his eyes roll and lying so still I had to look closely to tell he was breathing.

“Whoa,” Xan said, deeply impressed. “Is that from something? That was good!”

Dan remained silent and dead. “Wes, I think you need to revive him,” I prodded my younger son. I was having a hard time not laughing. Pretend to die, I'd told him. The man didn't do things by halves.

Wesley stepped toward him warily, and poked at him. Nothing. He poked him again, harder, and still got no response. “Dan!” He put both hands on his side and shook him, but Dan only flopped lifelessly. “Alive medicine?” He mimed pouring something on his face, but his victim remained stubbornly dead.

“Huh.” I stepped forward, smiling down at him fondly. “The alive medicine usually works. I guess we'll have to resort to drastic measures. What do you think?”

“Tickle him?” Wesley offered, starting to grin now that he could see no one else was worried.

“Good idea,” I agreed, realizing as I did that I had no idea whether Dan was ticklish. And we probably wouldn't find out now, since in my experience children were not very good at tickling people properly.

Sure enough, nothing happened. Wes shook him again, becoming frustrated now. “ _Daaaan_!”

“I know!” Xander exclaimed. “Kiss him, Mom.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Are you sure? That sounds risky.”

“Yeah, do it!”

Wesley jumped on board with his brother's enthusiasm, chanting “Do it, do it!”

I bent over Dan and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek.

“Not like _that._ ” I could actually _hear_ Xander rolling his eyes. “A real kiss.”

“I don't want to kiss a dead body!” I protested for show. The boys groaned. Things I had never imagined dealing with: my kids pressuring me to kiss my new boyfriend in front of them. Life really was strange sometimes. “Fine, fine,” I sighed dramatically, and leaned over the corpse again. “You better wake up this time,” I told him in a low whisper, and planted a slow, solid kiss on his mouth.

I was somewhat taken aback when he coughed, the sort of full-body spasm you think of someone doing after drowning. He continued coughing, rolling over onto his side and sounding as though he might throw up. I stepped back in surprise and disgust. “Oh now you're just going overboard,” I muttered, and then bit my lip and fought not to laugh as he pulled in some rough gasps of air and pushed himself back into a sitting position.

He ignored me, looking first at Wesley, then at Xander. “What happened?” He put his hand to his head, as if he was still recovering. I applauded. Xan joined in, grinning because he felt like he got the joke. Not wanting to be left out, Wesley clapped, too.

Dan stood up, took a deep stage bow, and rose with a real smile on his face. “It's from _Hamlet_ , Xander. Have you heard of William Shakespeare yet?”

“I know the name,” Xander said thoughtfully. “But I've never seen _Hamlet_. It's old?”

“It's pretty old,” he agreed. “Did you understand any of it?”

“You died!” Wesley said happily, which I thought summed the scene up very nicely.

“Wesley's more used to battlefield style deaths,” I explained, ruffling his hair. “You know, where you don't even have time to finish the word you're saying before you're gone.”

“Ah. Well, Shakespeare didn't write a lot of those.”

“Shame,” I stated, deadpan. “Just think if he'd done _Schindler's List_ or _Saving Private Ryan_ instead of Spielberg.”

The kids didn't get it, but Dan laughed.

*

Monday was great. We had a lot of pent-up desire from the weekend that badly needed to be released by then, and I spent a solid block of time screaming and moaning into my pillow while getting completely wrecked from behind. I collapsed in a trembling heap afterward and discovered that the sheets could do with a wash. Then again, I'd just gotten new ones, to go on the new bed we'd picked out last week.

We had dropped way too much money on it—or rather, Dan had. He'd insisted on paying for it on the grounds that the whole package cost less than a month's rent at his old apartment, despite my protests that any money he had in his savings would probably go toward hospital bills. I wanted to object, but he was determined, and the prospect of getting tied to a bed had been too delicious to resist...and then we'd had fun shopping for it, and it had occurred to me that the current mattress was at least six years old, and wouldn't a king-size bed be nice, if I was already buying a new one... So we now had a king-sized, four-poster bed frame, complete with a new pillow-top mattress. Or we would have, anyway, once it got delivered and set it up in here.

“You need...like...an _award_ ,” I told him, not caring if I sounded high. “In doggy-style. They should rename it Dan-style.”

“I'm so glad you feel that way,” he said slowly, stretching out on the dry side of the bed. “I had an idea for something to try once the bed gets here.”

“Oh?” I elevated my eyebrows, indicating my interest, but he shook his head. Not telling me? I narrowed my eyes, and he widened his in response. I shook my head and gave up. Fine, it could be a surprise. “Well what do you want to do while we wait for it to arrive, then?”

“Did you have breakfast yet?”

“I had coffee, why?”

“Wondering if you wanted to split an omelet.”

“That depends how much cheese you're putting on it.”

“Not much.”  
“Then no...wait, do we have tomatoes and mushrooms?”

“No mushrooms.”

I considered, then shook my head. “I need some sunshine. You make one for yourself while I go on a little walk, yeah?”

“So you're just having coffee for breakfast?”

I'd been in the process of sitting up, but now I flopped back down to stare at him. “You say that like it's a bad thing. Dan. Pumpkin. It's _coffee_.”

He shook his head forlornly. “It's not the coffee I'm worried about as much as the lack of anything else.”

I continued staring at him levelly. “You've seen me eat. And I'm not exactly wasting away, either.”

“You have curves, not fat. And yes, I've seen you eat, but not ever anything really healthy.”

“Stir fry is healthy!” I defended myself. “And chocolate for lunch is...well look, if you're not complaining about my weight, what _are_ you complaining about?”

“You're going to give yourself a heart attack or diabetes or something if you go on like that!”

I tried not to get petty, I really did. But he couldn't just attack chocolate and coffee and get away with it. “I'm healthier than _you_ are, Mr. Sixty Stitches in His Wrists. Being from California doesn't make you superior to the rest of us, you know.”

He looked downright wounded, and I immediately felt bad. “I'm not _from_ California. And you made me promise not to kill myself again? I don't want to watch _you_ kill yourself, either.”

“You haven't seen me without daily sugar. I turn into a raging bitch when I diet. I'm not doing that to you and the kids.”

“I'm not asking you to diet, just eat healthier!”

“I exercise! When I'm not busy nursing my boyfriend back to health, I usually spend hours a day exercising!”

He winced as that one struck home, but didn't comment on it. “And that's great, but it's not the same as eating healthy.”

“No,” I said flatly, crossing my arms defiantly. The fact that we were having our first argument while naked really was pretty funny, if you thought about it objectively.

“No? No what?”

“No, I'm not going to transition overnight to eating a bunch of west coast crap that my body isn't used to and I don't like! I can't believe we're even having this discussion.”

His temper flashed. “Oh please, forgive me for looking out for you a little bit!”

I held up a finger (not the middle one), but my anger was receding as quickly as his had appeared. “And I appreciate that, but...oh really, I _do_ , I'm sorry, pumpkin.” I rolled through the damp spot on the sheets to wrap my arms around him. “That was totally bitchy of me, I'm so sorry.”

I felt him relax as he hugged me back. “So we're not going to fight over this?” he asked in relief.

I shook my head. “I'll make an effort, okay? I know it's coming from a good place. But I really _will_ get bitchy if I cut out all junk food overnight. I kind of live on it. And my period's due on Wednesday, so it's not the best time to bring it up. Not like that's an excuse, but...” I shrugged. “Sorry.” You go shower and make an omelet, and when I get back from my walk I'll join you in a glass of orange juice or something, okay?”

The doorbell rang, and we exchanged looks of panic. 

“ _Or_ we can pull some clothes on as quickly as possible and let in the delivery men,” I said as I scrambled onto the floor and started yanking on my underwear.

He didn't have a bra to fasten or slippery thighs to mop up, so he beat me downstairs. The two uniformed men were already heading back to their truck to begin unloading by the time I joined him down there. Since I felt he was still going to need some breakfast before putting the bed together, I stood on tip-toe to kiss his chin (it was all I could reach until he noticed and turned his face downward). “I guess shower will have to wait, but go do your thing in the kitchen. I'll direct them upstairs and take care of this.”

Dan looked reluctant for a moment, but he must have concluded that getting the bed pieces upstairs wasn't really a two-person job unless we were the ones carrying it. I supervised all the pieces going into our bedroom, hurrying ahead of them to tear the covers off of the current bed before anyone correctly concluded what it had just been used for. I needed to unmake it anyway, if we wanted the delivery people to take away the old one when they left; we didn't exactly have room for both in the master bedroom, even if it _was_ spacious.

The whole thing was over in less than fifteen minutes, and I took the instructions back to the dining room to study while Dan ate his breakfast. It was pretty standard assembly, and as I'd hoped, it looked like it could be done without making Dan lift anything heavy enough to tax his still-healing wrists. While he showered, I grabbed a few tools out of the basement, and sat in the middle of the floor, pulling plastic wrap off the various pieces.

It took over an hour, but we were able to get the thing put together without doing any injury to ourselves or each other. Getting the mattress on was the most awkward part, and luckily that came last. Well, almost last; we still needed to get the new sheets on it. I was taking them out of their packaging when I was seized from behind and pushed face-first into the nearest bare section of the wall. Not that I smashed my face into the surface—he wasn't quite _that_ rough—but there was enough force in the push to make me bounce back slightly. His crotch was pushing into the small of my back almost immediately, and his hands crawled down my arms to grab my wrists and pin them to the wall in front of me. I went from zero to turned-on even before his lips touched the side of my neck.

He worked me over pretty thoroughly before spinning me around and putting my back against the wall instead. “I've missed this,” he told me when he removed his hands from my breasts in order to pull my shirt over my head.

“It's been two days,” I laughed, drunk on hormones, and arched against him hopefully.

“I know.” He unfastened my bra easily, and put his hands on my bare waist as he bent down to kiss me. I groaned deep in the back of my throat, digging my fingers into his shoulders. “I don't know how I lived eight months without it.”

“You really are a romantic, aren't you,” I panted as he moved his hands down to unbutton my jeans.

“Yeah, that's what we'll call it,” he remarked dryly, shoving them down my hips. I grabbed the hem of his shirt and tugged upward. I really liked the site of his bare chest and freshly tousled hair, and might have spent a lot longer just admiring it if he hadn't knelt down to pull my pants off over my feet. “Down,” he suggested, tugging gently on my wrists and persuading me to lie down on the floor instead of the mattress. He was on top of me almost at once, and I got a chance to press my fingers against the bare shoulders I'd been admiring. If I'd been capable of purring, I would have.

I had vainly assumed we were just going to do it on the floor because the bed wasn't made yet and I was so irresistible he couldn't wait a minute longer. I'd forgotten about his comment earlier. But when he abruptly got off of me with the words “Hold on, stay there,” a deep dark part of me immediately knew that he was heading for the bottom dresser drawer.

He came back with a good length of rope and a nervous smile. “Okay...hands and knees, first. Come this way.” He knelt down by the nearest of the so-recently-installed bedposts. Excitement and hesitancy fought for dominance in his face, and I shivered in anticipation as I crawled over. “Hold on. Did you want me to gag you this time?” He started to stand back up.

I considered that seriously. “Nah....well...you prefer hearing me, don't you?”

“I admit, I'm not tired of that yet. But I asked _you_.”

I grinned. “We'll save it for next time.”

He grinned back, that flash of intense sunshine changing his face for the space of a second. “Okay. Put your hands on either side of the post. Down here.” He indicated the very bottom of it, the maybe six inches between the floor and where it met the rest of the frame. I felt my breathing change, could almost feel the arousal overtaking my body just at the thought. I stretched out my arms out in front of me and let Dan position them the way he wanted. “Bear with me now,” he muttered, and carefully went to work with the rope. It was an awkward angle to tie from, but when he sat back after a minute I was quite effectively trapped. I certainly couldn't stand up or move my arms, and I could only lift my head a few inches off the carpet. My excited panting turned into more of a high-pitched whine of desire.

It was difficult to see behind me, but I heard him step out of his pants, and felt him plant his hands on either side of my hips: solid, reassuring, and silently promising very, very good things. With just a little pressure, he guided my legs back a few inches, until I was kneeling properly instead of almost lying down. With my ass satisfactory high in the air, he slipped a hand between my legs, barely brushing over the flesh there. “Nice,” he whispered, voice suddenly next to my ear as he leaned over my back.

Despite my arousal, I snorted in laughter. “Need to put a towel down?”

His fingers lightly touched the same spot again, making me gasp. “Pretty close, yeah. I love that you shave, by the way. I wasn't sure at first, but it's so smooth...so easy to feel everything...” He gave up on words, instead letting out a drawn-out growl of pleasure as he slid deep into me. I gave a strangled shriek at the intensity of it, followed closely by a series of groans as he pulled slowly back and went in again.

As always, the fact that I could hardly move somehow made all my nerves light up and turned every sensation into something almost overwhelming. I was helpless, and he was using it to torture me with pleasure. He leaned forward over my back again, this time stretching one of his hands around to squeeze my chest. My arms jerked automatically, the rope bit into them, and heat swirled inside me.

I started to come, screaming his name as the raw feelings spiraled out of control, and he...stopped. Broke the rhythm deliberately, just enough to sabotage the internal crescendo I was experiencing. “Why would you _do_ that?” I demanded in a ragged voice half an octave higher than usual.

His lips briefly warmed a spot just below my shoulder. “Because I want to make it last as long as possible, honey bunny.”

In an agony of delight and frustration, I tried to squirm away from my vulnerable position and got exactly nowhere. He redoubled the attack, and I screamed his name again. Behind me, he groaned deeply. I became totally incoherent.

God bless the man, he knew how to drag it out. I was shaking and utterly spent when he finished with me. After one last minute of closeness, he lay down on his back on the floor next to me. “I'll...I'll untie you in just a second,” he said breathlessly. “Hold on.” I didn't say anything because I couldn't. I rubbed my face against the carpet to wipe off the drool. Dan let out a shaky sigh. “That was....”

“Intense?” I offered thickly, and shuddered again.

He stretched a tired arm out toward me, letting the tips of his fingers caress my upper arm. “You are _so_ beautiful and amazing, do you know that? How can you do... _that_ to me when you're tied up?”

“I don't do anything,” I murmured, still regaining control of my voice. “It's all you.”

He shook his head. “If it was all me, it would have felt like that every time I've ever done it, and I'll tell you what, it _didn't_.”

I smiled weakly. “I love you. I'd kiss you right now, if I could move.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah...” He rolled himself over slowly, and went to work on the knots.

When my hands were finally free, we had a long, romantic kiss on the floor before getting up to clean off, finish making up the bed, and go together on that walk I'd wanted earlier.

*

“So how was it?”

Dan shut the door behind him and kicked off his shoes as I walked into the front hall. “About what you'd expect.”

“So painfully awkward but with a little potential?”

He shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up. I hadn't worn mine in three days, but I guess spring in Michigan isn't quite the same if you've spent the last decade in California. “I found it alright, the wait wasn't too bad. Lots of paperwork. The guy didn't push too much, he seems nice enough.”

“And?” I asked, stepping close to greet him properly.

He bent down to kiss me. It all felt deliciously comfortable and domestic—hard to believe he'd barely been here a week. “And what?”

“Aaaaand when do you go back?” I prompted. “Aaaand did you get around to talking about any of the relevant issues? I mean, you don't have to tell me about it, I know it's private. Just trying to get an idea.”

He sank down onto the living room sofa. “'So why are you here?' 'Oh, you know, tried to kill myself a few weeks back.' 'Oh _my_! Do you want to talk about it?' 'Isn't that what I'm paying you for?' 'Not necessarily. What would you _like_ to talk about?'”

I settled down next to him. “Did you talk about your feelings, then? Or just the run-down of your personal history leading up to the big blood...” I started to giggle, and covered my face in horror. “I was going to say _blood bath_. That's not funny. Ohmygod I'm so sorry, pumpkin. Just...wrong choice of words...”

He surveyed me for a moment, and I wasn't sure if he was going to laugh or cry. “It's a word thing,” he said at last. “I get it. You weren't laughing when it counted.”

“No, I wasn't,” I agreed, sobering up. “I was...worried sick is a serious understatement. _Frantic_ , there you go.”

Nodding, he generously decided to answer my original question. “I didn't feel like crying on the shoulder of a guy I just met, so I fed him the getting-to-know-you stuff. Growing up with my mom, Julliard, hitting the boards, Jungle Cruise, you, and...” He mimed yanking a knife across his left wrist, but then got lost in his thoughts and stared at the little porcupine row of stitches there. I silently slipped my hand into his. He looked up at me almost blankly. “It hurt, you know.”

He'd never mentioned that before. I felt the concern well up inside me. “Really?”

Dan nodded. “Like...shit, I don't have words for it. It was stupid, but I thought it wouldn't. In the movies it looks so...calm, I guess. I figured with a sharp blade, one quick movement and the body goes into denial, you don't really feel anything. But Jesus Christ, I'm glad I didn't hesitate on the first one. I mean—” He looked miserable now, and I wondered if I was going to get the tears he'd denied the therapist today. “I don't know if I'm really _glad_ or not. Maybe if I'd wimped out I would have just sat around feeling sorry for myself and waiting for you. Maybe we could have skipped the whole hospital part and just gone to the crying and the sex. But I didn't, so anyway.”

He sighed and scratched his jaw. “I decided I couldn't deal with seeing you. I didn't want to wait. I didn't want you to see me all depressed and fucked up. So I was going to get it over with, fuck promises, fuck the world. I felt like I had to tell you, but I couldn't face your reaction, so I wrote it all down on paper. I sat down with a pen and it took me ages to think of a single thing to say. Finally it started coming, and kept coming, and coming. When it _stopped_ coming, I didn't stop to think anymore. I chose a knife, went into the bathroom and turned on the tap, went back into my bedroom and stripped down, then went right back into the bathroom, sat down in the tub, and went for it.

“Only, like I said, it hurt. I dropped the knife in the tub for a second and just stared as my wrist started bleeding all over thinking how much it fucking _hurt_. I only got the other one done because I picked the knife back up right away and kept telling myself, it'll stop in a minute, do a good job now so it stops faster. But the next one hurt just as much. I put them in the water but it didn't stop. I remember thinking, this is dying, this is what it feels like to die. I thought about acting for a minute, all the deaths I'd played, and kicking myself because it wasn't how I'd imagined it at all. That made me wish I'd cut even deeper, and for a minute the pain felt... _right_. That's when I took the mental step back and watched the blood in the water and thought of you again. But...I still think about it. A lot. And it scares me.”

I wiggled into his lap so that I could hug him, but I didn't attempt to stop the flow of words.

“It scares me,” he repeated, sounding sick and shaken. “That that was me. That I could do that. And that...that's all there is to us. Blood and flesh and pain, and I could have been gone. Anyone could. If you hadn't come, I would have. It's that easy. I'm not sure what's worse, that I did it on purpose or that it could happen just as easily by accident. We're that fragile. A few minutes, a couple cuts...it doesn't take much, Sharon.”

I laughed, a little sadly. “You think I don't know that?” Then I hugged him tighter. “It's good to talk about it. It'll get easier. The fear will go away with time. And until it does...don't feel like you have to fake stuff for me. I'm just happy you're here, honest. You're doing far and away better than I'd expect. So if some days you just need to be held instead of having amazing sex, or if you want time alone to think, or...I don't know, whatever. You can _be_ sad and scared. Don't fake it on my account.”

He brought his hand up to smooth my hair, which made me feel a bit better even though his eyes were still sad. “I'm not faking it. I didn't mean for you to think that.”

“Good.” I traced the back of my fingers over his cheek.

He let out a long, shaky sigh, and rubbed at his jaw again. “Anyway, I'm going back on Friday. Twice a week, at least for a while. And yeah, I do think it'll make some difference. I like him, actually. It's just hard to say yet.”

I nodded. “Great. You want to just sit here for a little while now?” He paused, then nodded, and I snuggled close to him. We sat like that for a stretch of a few minutes.

“I love you,” he said after a while. His voice was soft, but he sounded a bit better.

“I love you, too,” I replied at once, kissing the front of his shoulder through his shirt because it was the nearest part of him I could reach.

We sat like that a few minutes longer, and then he shifted so that he was sitting more upright, and gave me what could almost pass for a smile. “You know what _else_ today is, right?”

“Your stitches!” I exclaimed, glancing from his eyes down to his wrists. “Do you really want to do it right _now_?”

He considered the question for only a second. “Yeah. It feels like the right time. And I sure don't want to do it in front of the kids.”

“Why not? Wesley'd probably find it really cool.”

“Because if it hurts, I'm going to swear.”

“Ah.” That was a good point. “I don't think it's going to hurt though, is it?”

He shrugged, still disconsolate.

“Well,” I offered, “should we put something on TV to take your mind off the pain if it hurts, and the boredom if it doesn't?”

“Sure, why not. Anything you got in mind?”

I thought about it, and then my mouth twisted in embarrassment as an idea struck me. “I could put on my recording of _Rainmaker._ Then you won't be the only one wincing.”

“You want to make me suffer twice as much, is what I'm hearing.”

I gave him a sunny smile. “I won't know if you're flinching because I'm pulling on the stitches too hard, or because the high school acting is just that bad. Besides, you'd get to see the guy I spent all of high school crushing on.”

“Tempting,” Dan said, not displaying much interest.

“Should we put on one of _your_ old recordings, then? I still want to see them, you know.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “If you're determined to watch those, you'll want to be able to focus on them.”

If he hadn't been so upset, I would have rolled my eyes. “Fine, we'll just put on some music and I'll focus on your arm till it's done. Unless you want to do it yourself?”

That got a shadow of a smile. “Nah, you talked me out of that one.”

I had, too. So he pulled up _Agents of Fortune_ on his phone while I rubbed down my tweezers and sewing scissors in alcohol just to be safe. Then I sat down, pulled his left arm into my lap, and started at the beginning. The stitches were tight, but while tugging upward on the tiny little knot with my tweezers, I was able to fit the tip of the scissors in there.

“Ow!”

“Sorry.” I snipped, and used the tweezers to pull the stitch out before looking up at him. “One down. You didn't swear.”

“Yet,” he pointed out darkly.

The next two came out a little easier, and I was starting to think I'd gotten the hang of it when #4 refused to budge. It seemed like it had fused with his skin. I tugged upward again, trying to shove the sharp tip of the scissors underneath, and Dan hissed. I murmured apologies and wiggled the tip of the scissors. “ _Ow_!” he protested.

In a strange way, I found it kind of cute. If he'd gone into a real doctor to get this done, he'd probably be complaining a lot less. But I was cheaper, and he didn't feel like he had to hold back around me. In my mind, it was a high compliment.

I got the scissors wedged in there at last and cut the stitch as he swore. “I'll make you a martini after this,” I told him calmly as I pulled it out.

“It's barely lunch time,” he objected.

I shrugged. “And?”

“Becoming an alcoholic isn't going to impress my therapist.”

I shot a quick glance at him, and saw a smile lurking in the corners of his eyes. “That's very noble of you. But we have another sixty-four of these to go.”

He groaned. “Okay, okay. Let's put on _Rainmaker_ and have a drink.”

I tried to hide my growing smile. “You say that like I was making it hurt on purpose so I could get my way. I promise you, I am not dying to show you my mediocre acting or get you drunk.”

“If I thought you were doing that, I'd just tell you to stop. What I'm doing here is saying you were right.”

“Oh!” I stopped, surprised and pleased by this. “Thanks.” I stood up to go find the movie, but he caught my hand.

“Hey. Thanks for doing this.”

I brought our joined hands up to my mouth, and kissed his. “I wouldn't have it any other way.”

*

We waited a few weeks before going to visit my parents, even though the kids and I normally saw them at least twice a month. Part of this was that I figured, after more than a week of watching Xander and Wesley, they were burnt out and could use a break from the whole family. The other part was that I didn't want to force Dan into a full day of trying to socialize with his new girlfriend's parents while he was still on-and-off depressive and adjusting to all the major changes in his life.

But it had now been three weeks of slowly showing off the area zoos, museums, and hiking trails. Three weeks of showing him old family videos on my computer and snuggling on the sofa while watching old recordings of his past leading roles. Three weeks (okay, two) of therapy sessions. Three weeks of slowly winning over Xander and Wesley. If we didn't do it now, it was just going to get _more_ awkward when we finally dealt with it.

Besides, Sunday was Mother's Day.

I'd had to tell my parents more about him, of course. I'd told Mom about the suicide attempt specifically because I didn't want her or Dad asking him any difficult questions about it. And even though she was now full of anxiety about his—and my—mental health, it had gone a long way toward explaining why things had happened the way they did last month. It was a relief, because I'd always felt guilty about putting them through that without a proper account of why I would run out to California out of the blue and return with a boyfriend.

Anyway, there was still lots that they _could_ talk to him about. I'd only told them a little bit about his background, so that they could get to know him on his own instead of having me narrate his whole life for them. They knew where I'd met him, that he was gentle and respectful with the boys, that he'd tried to kill himself, and that he made me incredibly happy. I made sure to mention that point regularly in my correspondence with them, but I think they would have been able to tell anyhow.

When I woke up Sunday morning, there was a card on my nightstand. God knew when he'd picked it up—while I was out taking the boys to their activities, I supposed. I'd been leaving him at home so far, rather than drag him along to those. It was blank, simple, just a picture of flowers on the outside. But he'd filled he entire inside of the card with his cramped, straight handwriting, detailing all the things he'd noticed about my parenting, and what an amazing mother he thought I was. I traced my finger down the page, fighting back tears of emotion. Oh yeah. I'd definitely picked a good one. Later I slipped it into my purse, just in case my parents were proving hard sells and I needed something to quietly pass them to show how great my boyfriend was.

But it never came to that. It was awkward at the start, yes. My father greeted Dan politely enough, but then the boys pulled their grandpa off to play. It left us sitting around visiting with my mom, who started by asked Dan how he was liking Michigan so far. It gave him a chance to recount all the places we'd already taken him, so maybe it wasn't a bad place to start, but it did have a canned feel to it. Maybe any first conversation your boyfriend has with your parents is destined to feel canned and awkward.

“I'm sorry about our last meeting,” Mom told him when they'd run out of things to say about Impression Five and the weather. “I keep thinking we should have stayed longer. I hope we weren't rude. I was just so ready to get home at that point.”

Dan put a hand up, as if to stop her. “No, _I'm_ sorry. You wouldn't have been there if not for me. I should have started out by saying thank you. Sharon has nothing but good to say about you, and you seem like fantastic parents and grandparents. And you're the reason she was able to come out to LA, I guess—both times, not just when I needed her. I owe you a lot.”

Mom was clearly touched by this, because she looked more sad than happy as she came over to give him a hug. “Thank you,” she said huskily. “That was very kind. We were glad to help out, we love the boys. And it was obviously important.”

“ _He's_ important,” I added, contributing to the conversation, and squeezed the hand Dan already had linked with mine.

She was sitting back down opposite us by then, and now she _did_ smile. “I can tell. So Dan, how did you wind up in Los Angeles?”

That was the opening he'd needed. Shyly at first, but with more enthusiasm as he went on, he told her about his acting career. I noticed that, despite all the reservations he had about his talent, future, and dreams, none of it ever came through when he was talking about his theater accomplishments. He didn't brag, exactly, but there was no modesty as he described the audience numbers his shows had seen, some of the things critics had written about him, or the fact that he'd graduated first in his class in college. I was glowing with pride when the boys ran back in (closely followed by my dad) and interrupted the conversation. Xander had realized Dan hadn't received a tour of what was essentially his second home, and was bursting with excitement to show him. Wesley wanted me to come see the anthill he and Grandpa had found.

By the time the Grand Tour led them outside, Wesley had switched over from admiring ants to digging up worms, with a promise from Grandpa of some fishing later. Dan didn't touch the dirt, but he did crouch down and admire them. Dad asked him whether he'd ever done any fishing. To my surprise, he responded with multiple stories about going out on the ocean in his granddad's little motorboat as a kid, listening to stories in his Scottish brogue and watching him smoke cigarettes and reel in salmon.

I'd heard about his grandparents before, but these ones were new to me and I listened with delight as he told about the time Granddad caught a shark, and the time they got caught in a spring downpour while out on the boat and a furious Grandma smacked them both with a dishrag when they walked in the door, then sat them down and forced hot toddies on them. They'd clearly been at least as much a part of his childhood as my parents were for Xander and Wesley. It was a pity neither of them had lived to see him graduate college.

Dad enjoyed the stories enough that he invited Dan to come along when he took Wes fishing on the riverbank later that day. Dan cast me a quick glance that I read as _Help, I bit off more than I can chew here_ , but accepted the offer when I didn't immediately jump in with an excuse.

Things were slightly stilted again when we got around to lunch. I tried to encourage the boys to talk about what they'd been learning in school, and my parents talked about their latest retirement projects—mostly artwork and gardening. Clearly trying to make an effort, Dan told a story about work from before I met him, involving a very drunken father on the boat. Calling security hadn't really been an option for obvious reasons, so he'd just had to spend ten minutes pretending he couldn't hear the guy's comments. Since it didn't end in a physical altercation, and I could tell he was trying to make it funny, I laughed. So did Dad and Xan. Wes didn't really get it, and Mom looked slightly horrified.

“That poor man,” Mom said to me once they headed off to the nearby river with several fishing rods.

“What? Dad'll be nice, right?” I turned to her in concern, but she shook her head.

“No, just that he couldn't find work as an actor. What happened?”

I shut my eyes, uttering brief and silent thanks that she hadn't asked _him_ that. “Nothing, according to him. He moved to Hollywood, I guess? He was doing okay in New York. But I know, you'd think with his credentials that would have been a _good_ career move.” I shrugged sadly. “He's _great,_ Mom. I've seen some of his acting.”

“I believe it,” she said heartily. “He's very sweet. And he clearly cares about you.”

“So you won't hold it against him?” I asked anxiously.

“Hold _what_ against him?”

Again, I shrugged. “Trying to kill himself? Making me run out west on the spur of the moment? Not being Marty?”

She hugged me. “Sweetie, if _you_ don't hold any of that against him, who are we to question it, hm?”

“Can we play a card game?” Xander asked plaintively, and we spent the next two hours focusing on him. Mom asked a few more questions about the elephant in the room, but generally she seemed content to let the new guy sneak his way into our family. She asked him more questions about LA and the drama program at Julliard when he returned with Dad, Wes, and complaints about all his fish being too small to keep. Wesley, on the other hand, had caught a sizable bluegill which had only been released because he couldn't stand the thought of killing it. Dan showed us pictures on his phone.

I got my dad alone for a little bit before dinner, while the boys were running around outside enjoying the spring weather and Dan had gone out for a short jog on his own. “What do you think?” I asked—because much as I was a grown woman who had already made her choice, his opinion still mattered to me.

“He's quiet,” Dad answered guardedly. “I can tell he feels a little funny around us. But I can tell the boys feel comfortable around him, and you love him.” He smiled at me. “I'm glad you've found someone. You know he's always welcome here.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” I hugged him.

We headed home after another hour, figuring it was better not to push our luck this time. The boys played their gameboys on the hour drive back home, and Dan assured me the whole endeavor hadn't been too excruciating. He did seem relieved to hear, though, that he'd passed the test or whatever it was, and also that he wouldn't be required to socialize like that again for a few more weeks.

“I like them,” he said, sounding profoundly tired, “and we had fun fishing. But I'm not comfortable with them yet, you know?”

I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek as he drove. “You were awesome. I'm so proud of you. Now let's get home and you can hide in the bedroom reading and doing nothing for a few hours.”

“Talking with people shouldn't be that tiring.” He rubbed distractedly at his face.

I watched him affectionately. “Sure it should. Small talk is exhausting. And I bet you were always an introvert.”

He thought about that, and nodded. “I was. I am. Acting is easier. Why is being someone else so much easier?”

I didn't have an answer to that one.

*

Spring was well on its way to becoming summer when I tried to herd the boys toward the car for Wesley's karate lesson one Friday, and Xander announced that he'd rather stay home with Dan instead. They'd already had a comfortable, friendly relationship, but seeing Xander _choose_ to spend time with him—even if the alternative was just sitting and talking with me outside Wesley's lesson—warmed my heart. We got home to find all Xan's homework done, and the two of them sitting on the floor playing cards and talking about...something. I don't know what it was, because they both immediately clammed up when I walked in the door. Something to do with puberty or girls, probably, though it could just as easily have been something about music or a story from school. At any rate, much as curiosity burned in me, there was no way in hell I was going to stick my foot in the middle of whatever they were building.

And after that, it became a regular thing for the two of them to hang out while I was taking Wesley to “boring” places. Somehow, while I wasn't looking, their relationship changed from polite fondness and curiosity to, well, a _relationship_. They formed a solid bond—maybe it was because they were both artists who tended to be too hard on themselves, maybe it was just because Xander secretly craved a male presence other than his grandfather in his life and Dan enjoyed having a kid look up to him, but it _worked_.

Wesley was the harder sell, as I'd always suspected he would be. He'd never possessed Xander's trusting, outgoing nature, even as a baby. Losing his father at such a young age hadn't exactly helped. He was sweet, yes; he loved animals and was delightfully goofy around those he knew. And I saw flashes of that in him with Dan. He'd discovered that Dan did voices when he read stories, and that he was really excellent at playing pretend, so he sought him out for those things. But just as often he held himself distant from the tall interloper who ate dinner at his table and kissed his mother.

What really mattered, I suppose, was the lack of strife. We found a rhythm, and even if things weren't ideal all the time, they worked pretty well. We all got to know each other more, which was mostly to the good. Dan continued to express his disapproval of my consuming sugar for 70% of my daily diet, despaired at the piles of mail and schoolwork I could never seem to get rid of, and mostly held his tongue about all the crap I let my kids get away with. I had a hard time adjusting to someone putting my things away and helping with my housework, not to mention finding it weird that he always shut the bathroom door to pee. He was also a terrible cook who didn't _realize_ he was terrible (meaning Xan and I had to regularly find excuses to stop him without hurting his feelings) and his lack of interest in sex during my period left me frustratingly horny several days out of every month.

We both managed to deal with our small disappointments and peeves because the good moments far outshone them. Sharing a bed with him was bliss. The sex was continually show-stopping. Conversation ranged from family to politics to books to cinema. He read the novels I had written, decades earlier, and was willing to talk about them with me as though they were worth discussing. We traded mystery novels and chatted eagerly about them. We watched his recordings for his past shows, and I raved about his performances. We also watched my old home videos, letting him see what they boys were like when they were little and effectively introducing him to Marty. I found monologues online for him, and pressured him into rehearsing ones he'd never done before (he never wanted to at first, but he always positively glowed when he did it).

He was getting better, too. I wasn't full of myself enough to take the credit for that, but God, it felt good to see him smile so much. There were still bad days, of course; ones where I saw him cry, and even a few where he didn't really want to get out of bed. I let him have those; time to think and adjust wasn't bad, and there were enough _good_ days that we were able to work in all the fun activities on my check-list. Given where he'd been before we left LA, this was still progress.

It was a slow process, yes, but then I hadn't expected him to recover from the loss of all his hopes and dreams overnight. Even I felt there was something wrong with the world, that he hadn't been able to succeed in Hollywood, so it was possible that wound would never heal completely. He'd tried for so long, and then he'd been _miserable_ for so long...and now he had physical scars as well as emotional ones to show for it. With the stitches out, they had healed into a pair of smooth purple ridges running across one wrist and down the other forearm. With time, they'd be nothing more than raised white lines, but they'd always be there.

I wasn't sure that was a bad thing, though. The memories of finding him unconscious still haunted me from time to time, washing through my head unexpectedly and prompting me to stop whatever I was doing and go wrap him in a tight hug. But the suicide attempt had certainly shaken him, and he seemed more determined to move on than he had before. What I hoped was that the scars would serve as a reminder for him of how much worse things could get, and also how much he had to live for.

Though that was just a tiny piece of the Dan Douglas puzzle. He quoted Shakespeare to me at random while eating oranges in the kitchen. He'd sit in the library silently for long stretches of time, just staring at his own hands or out the window. He read a lot. Despite all his early claims that body humor was low-brow comedy, he _did_ laugh when Wesley told fart jokes. He wrote his mother every week. He loved playing with my hair. He had a habit of scratching his jaw whenever he was thinking, and spent longer brushing his teeth every morning than I had previously believed was humanly possible.

As the weeks passed, as both the boys actively sought him out to play with, and as he got to know the area, his smile came easier and shone brighter. Therapy twice a week made an impact, for sure. And getting him out of that job and out of LA certainly seemed to have helped. By the time June rolled around, he had stopped bemoaning the lack of fresh citrus and edible avocados, and started waxing poetic about all the grass, trees, flowers, and wildlife around us.

With the start of June, therapy went down to once a week. He started perusing the job ads again, this time with less whining about how worthless he was. I suggested he check the websites for all the nearby colleges, too, because there was a chance one of them might need staff for their theater department. He came along with us now whenever we visited my parents, and it was no longer an awkward endeavor. Our bedroom was taken over by his DVD collection, personal library of paperback mysteries, poetry, and scripts.

Then one day, as I was loading the dishwasher, his voice called me from the living room. “Hey honey bunny, c'mere.”

“Hold on.” I added another bowl, wanting to finish getting everything from dinner put away.

I heard footsteps, and he appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding his phone. Now that he was closer, I could hear it ringing. Hurriedly, I shoved one last plate into the washer and slammed it shut. Dan touched the screen of his phone, holding it out and in front of his face so that I instantly knew this was no voice call. “Ugh, why didn't you warn me!?” I demanded, running a hand over my hair and praying there was nothing stuck in my teeth.

“Hi, Mom!” he said to the phone instead of answering me.

“There's my boy!” The voice that came out of the phone was pleasantly low and mellow for a woman, and there _was_ something familiar about the cadence. The voice also sounded utterly delighted. “How are you?”

She must have been beaming, because I watched Dan's mouth widen into a slow, reluctant smile. “I'm good.”

“You _always_ say that,” she complained, but she still sounded happy. “You look better, though. I knew the big city wasn't doing you any favors, but I didn't realize two months out of there would have you looking healthier. How are you _really_?”

“I'm _fine,_ Mom.” It didn't even have to be a video call; she could have _heard_ him rolling his eyes. Something about talking to his mother seemed to regress him back to his teenage years. “Really. I feel great. I like it here. How are you?”

“Fine, love, fine. More of the same around here, really. Nothing I haven't told you before. Derek and I just keep trying out different pipe dreams for when we finally retire.”

Dan's smile broadened. “Yeah? What's the latest?”

“ _Well_ ,” she considered, “yesterday he suggested learning how to sail, and taking to the seas. But my personal favorite is still traveling Europe.”

“I'm telling you, Mom, it'll get old after about a year.”

“Easy for you to say. I've never even seen my ancestral homeland.”

“Ancestral? Mom, Granddad _came_ from Scotland.”

“Which is why I would like to spend some time there before I get too old.”

Listening to them was making me smile, but it lulled me into a false sense of security. When, after a few more light-hearted exchanges with his mother, Dan repeated “Honey, come here” to me, I was caught off-guard.

Nervous smile plastered on my face, I walked around behind him and peeked at the phone screen. I had enough time to take in an angelic crown of fading golden circles surrounding a face with bright blue eyes the same shape as Dan's, and then I was thrust into the spotlight. “This is my mom.”

It was all I could do not to roll _my_ eyes. Instead, I started laughing quietly. “That's the worst introduction ever. _Obviously_ it's your mom, you said _mom_ about twelve times in the time I've been listening.” Shaking my head, I faced the camera directly. Now that I was laughing, it was easier to give her a genuine smile. “Audrey. It's so nice to meet you.”

She gave a breathless exclamation of joy. “Oh! I could say the same. I've been after him for weeks now to call me with facetime so I could get a look at him and the new girlfriend he won't stop talking about.”

I felt my face heat slightly at the compliment. “Well, I'm glad he finally did. I've heard a lot of good things about you, too, you know.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Then I'm doubly impressed that you've gotten him to open up. Now whatever you're doing, thank you. He looks better than he has in years, and I suspect that's thanks to you.”

Dan was shaking his head in embarrassment. I bumped him playfully with my shoulder. “Come on, every halfway decent mother wants to see her kid happy. If I'm doing the job, then that makes _me_ happy.” Turning my full attention back to Audrey, I added “I can't take full credit for his happiness, though. I think Michigan agrees with him.”

“I've heard it's very pretty,” she agreed. “Green and wet, a lot like we have here. Dan's compared it to home a few times.”

“Well, we'll get him out to the Great Lakes here in another month,” I assured her. “And then he can do an accurate comparison.”

“Maybe you could even send some photos, right, Dan?” she asked pointedly, and I bit into my cheek to still a laugh. “I still can't believe you moved halfway across the country without warning me! You at least gave me some notice the last two times.”

“The last time was ten years ago!” Dan protested.

“I'm so sorry about that,” I said at almost the same time. I had to choose my words carefully here, because I wasn't sure how much he'd told her and didn't want to overstep, but I had to say _something_. “It was a really impulsive decision, and a lot of that was my fault.”

To my surprise, Audrey laughed. “Oh my goodness, sweetie, I'm not _upset_ with you! In fact, I should send you a thank-you note.”

I glanced sideways at Dan. “Is she for real?” That got a fresh smile out of both of them, and left me feeling pretty good about myself. “What exactly has he told you about me?”

Her mouth quirked up on one side in a smile that was almost sad. “Next to nothing directly, but that's not really new for you, is it, love? He mentions you enough that I'm able to fill in some of the blanks. I know you met last summer, and you were doing the long-distance thing until April. Honestly, I'm impressed you were able to carry it on for _that_ long that way. I've always found long-distance relationships very difficult, but then, I suppose modern technology helps a lot, doesn't it.”

I managed a smile and nod, hopefully not giving away the fact that this summary left out pretty much every important detail possible.

“I know you're a single mom, you have two school-age children, and you support him in his theater, which is good. I've gathered that you're kind and well-read. And now I have a face to put with the name!”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Dan, if you were my kid, I would kill you.”

“Good thing I'm not,” he remarked dryly, neither of us making the obvious jokes that sentence provided for.

“You didn't tell her _anything_!”

“I told her you have kids! I told her about when we met! I told her you're from Michigan, that's important to you, right?”

That one made me start laughing again, and I saw that Audrey was amused, too. She really _was_ as sweet as he'd described her. “Yes,” I followed up, since I felt I owed her a response. “I have two sons, Xander and Wesley. They're both in grade school. Their father died four years ago in a car crash. They see a lot of their grandparents, but I think it's been really nice for them to have Dan around. Not just as another man to who's willing to play with them, but because he understands what it's like. You did a terrific job with him, by the way. I'm so impressed.”

“Dan, you really play with them?” This seemed to surprise her as much as it had surprised him at the start.

“Yeah,” he smiled shyly as he admitted it. “It's a lot easier than I thought it would be. I actually like it.”

She beamed at him, then transferred her smile on to me. “I'm so glad he's doing a good job with them. I didn't marry Derek until after Dan started college, so the balancing act is a bit daunting to me. And thank you for saying that, sweetie. It means a lot coming from someone who gets it. I did my best with him, and he's still alive, so most days I take that as an accomplishment.”

“He's wonderful,” I said, and wrapped my arms around him where she could see. “Really. I feel so lucky to have him here.”

“Then I'm glad he's there,” she said, and I felt the weight of a parental blessing settle comfortably on my shoulders. “Would it be out of line if I asked to meet your sons? It sounds like he's almost as important to them as he is to you, and that makes me so happy.”

“Of course! Xan!” I lifted my voice and stepped away from the phone, hoping the shout would reach up the stairs. “Wesley! Come here a second, would you?” Naturally they didn't come, and I had to walk most of the way up the steps and ask them if they wanted to say hi to Dan's mom before they dropped what they were doing and came down. To their credit, though, they came willingly once they heard what I was asking.

Xan, as usual, came barreling into the living room and looked around before realizing Dan and his phone were in the kitchen. Then he pranced over to them, wormed his way around Dan's elbow, and exclaimed “Hello! I'm Xander.”

I was still walking down the steps with a less enthusiastic Wesley, but I could hear the conversation easily enough. “Well hello, Xander.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” he said amiably.

Dan's face was a mixture of surprise and amusement. I peeked at the screen, and could see Audrey's tentative smile. “Thank you,” she exclaimed.

Xander grinned. “So where do you live?”

“I live in Oregon,” she answered, still looking a little perplexed. “Do you know where that is?”

He nodded immediately, and I gave him credit for not rolling his eyes. “It's on the west coast above California. The capital is Salem.”

“Oh!” Poor Audrey clearly had not expected a Xander. Though to be fair, few people did. “How old are you?”

“Ten. I'm in fourth grade at Ralya Elementary.”

Now she was nodding thoughtfully, and Dan and I were exchanging glances of poorly suppressed amusement. “I suppose that's about the age I learned my geography, too. But I'm impressed that you remember the capital!”

“You're probably from Medford though, right?” Xander asked politely. “That's where Dan's from. He showed us pictures.”

“He did?” She looked pleased at this information. “Well, that's nice to hear. So Xander, do you like school?”

“It's okay. It can be kinda boring sometimes, but I like my teacher, and recess is fun.”

“What do you like then?” I prompted him.

“I really like music,” he declared proudly. “I can sing and play guitar. I want to be a rock star. But I like swimming and geography, too. Especially maps. I taught myself all the states years ago.”

“That's very impressive!” Audrey exclaimed, starting to get the hang of the conversation. “I'd like to hear you sing sometime.”

“Sure! Would you like to come visit sometime? We have a guest room downstairs.”

Panic flashed through Dan's face, and while he recovered quickly I could tell the smile wasn't genuine anymore. “Wes, can you say hi, too?” I asked encouragingly to cover for it.

Dan crouched down with the phone so that it'd be at Wes's level, but my little guy held tightly onto my hand as he stepped forward. “Hi.”

This was much more Audrey's speed, apparently. She radiated happiness and kindness at him through the phone. “Hi there! I'm Audrey, I'm Dan's mommy. How are you?”

“Good,” he answered softly, but he didn't flinch away from the screen.

“Thank you for coming to say hello,” she continued to coo. “I bet you're a big helper to your mom, aren't you?”

“Yes,” he said, gaining a bit of confidence. “I get to use the vacuum now. I'm six!”

“You _vacuum_? That's amazing! Is it fun?”

That coaxed a slow smile out of him. “It's really loud.”

“And what sorts of things do _you_ like?”

“Animals. I'm gonna be a vet.”

“Oh, how nice! I like animals, too. Derek and I have three dogs.”

Now she had him. “What are their names?”

“Sandy, Duncan, and Pete.”

“Wow! Are they big?”

“Pete is very big, he's what's called a Newfie. Sandy and Duncan are brothers, and they're smaller. You should come see them some day! I'd love it if you'd come visit us.”

“Um, okay,” Wesley ventured. “If my mom says it's okay.”

Audrey was beaming again. “Of course! I'd like her to come, too. And _Dan_ , of course.”

The pointed remark twisted Dan's mouth up into something between a smile and grimace, and strangely, I was sure he was feeling both. “I hear you, Mom.”

“Okay, bye!” Wesley was done being social with strangers, and ran off to play while the rest of us were momentarily distracted.

“He reminds me of you,” Audrey told Dan with a smile. “Boy, his brother's fearless, isn't he?”

“He's social, but I wouldn't say fearless,” Dan responded.

“He's always been like that with people,” I agreed. “Even as a baby he was smiling at strangers in the grocery store. Wes just gave them the evil eye.”

She laughed delightedly. “Yes, just like Dan. He was my little sweetheart, though.”

I shared her smile, and glanced at Dan. “That's not hard to imagine.”

Dan groaned. “Okay, I'm separating you two before you become best friends and ruin my life.”

I raised my hands in surrender, where his mother could see them and appreciate the joke. “Alright, I'll butt out. Audrey, it's so nice to meet you. Thank you for raising such a great man.”

“Thank you, Sharon. I hope I get to see much more of you, _and_ your boys. If Dan ever decides he wants to come home again, we'd love to have all of you come stay.”

“Thank you!” I said, and followed the kids back upstairs so that my boyfriend and his mother could talk without interruption—whether he wanted it or not! I thought that he did, though. Despite all the reticence and protesting, I could tell he loved her, and I felt stupidly special because he'd wanted to introduce me.

“Don't say a word,” he warned me when he finally came and joined us without his phone.

I simply lifted my eyebrows. “I like her. She's nice.”

He smiled slowly, and sat down so he could pull me into a hug. “So are you.”

*

“What happens when school gets out for the summer?”

“They have day camp. Is this really the time to have this conversation?”

I was currently standing against one of our bedposts, with my arms stretched up over my head, completely naked.

Dan was standing close enough that his boxers brushed against my skin, but he was busy securing my wrists to the top of the post. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“Um...” I would have thought it was pretty obvious, and he damn well knew it. I gave him a dirty look.

“Ah.” He nodded knowingly. “So what do _you_ think we should talk about right now?”

“I was perfectly happy panting in sweet anticipation, as a matter of fact.”

He ignored that. “So does this day camp run all summer? Where's it at?”

“Like you care,” I snorted, more playful than angry. “You just want to know whether you'll be able to keep doing _this_ all day.”

“Oh?”

“And by _this_ , I mean getting me naked and tying me up only to have reasonable, boring conversations with me, obviously.”

He reached down to stroke one finger along my collarbone. I shivered. “You're really hot when you're frustrated.”

“And you're a dick!”

I was still feeling mostly amused when I threw the words at him, assuming he'd know that I didn't mean them. But he froze, then his face collapsed in slow motion as he stepped down from the bed and away from me. “You don't mean that,” he whispered, filling the syllables with pain.

“Of course I don't!” I protested at once, shocked that he'd take it that way. I tried to bring my arms down, to step forward and give him a hug of reassurance, but he must have finished tying them. “I was just teasing,” I said urgently.

He shook his head, taking another step away from me and looking like he was about to cry. “You really feel that way?” he asked in wounded disbelief.

“Of _course_ I don't,” I repeated, trying to convince him of it with my eyes.

Dan kept shaking his head. “I thought...” he began, but rather than finish the sentence he turned away from me.

“Dan I'm _kidding_ ,” I said desperately, giving another tug at my arms. “Why are you taking it like this?”

“Oh, right, I'm the one overreacting,” he said bitterly, his back still to me. “It's okay, I won't hold it against you if you want me to leave.” He turned back, and I could see the tears trailing down his cheeks. He swatted at one of them in embarrassment. “I should have known it was too good to be true.”

And he walked out of the room.

I was torn internally between distress for _him_ , because I felt terrible and needed to console him right away, and concern for _myself_ if he was too upset to return for a while; I didn't exactly want to be stuck like this, especially not when the kids got home from school.

Dan peeked back around the door frame. “Jesus Christ, you really think I'm _that_ emotionally unstable?”

I stared at him. All traces of tears and hurt were gone. “You were _faking_?”

“No, darling,” he answered in a highly affected voice, “I was _acting_.”

My jaw dropped. “Get over here,” I said when I found words again. “I'm going to kick your ass! I was _worried_!”

He laughed; not just the dark chuckle I was used to but a full, delighted laugh. “How are you going to do that?” he asked, stepping closer and flicking his eyes toward my bound arms.

“Oh my God, you're an asshole,” I remarked in false wonder. I looked dramatically up at the ceiling. “I'm dating an asshole.”

He stepped closer again, into my personal space. “You really thought I was that upset over a stupid remark? You have that little faith in me?”

I studied him, trying not to get immediately hot and bothered by his proximity. “If I say yes, are you going to pretend to cry again?”

A grin crept across his face. “Maybe.”

“Ugh!” I rolled my eyes. “Actors!”

He was still laughing to himself. “You love it.”

I did, actually. Maybe I should have been angry at him scaring me like that, but I was secretly impressed and delighted. Even if the mini performance hadn't knocked my socks off (well, if I'd been wearing any), I would have been thrilled just from that laugh alone. “I love _you_. Now stop dicking around!”

“Poor choice of words. I'm surprised at you, honey.”

Lacking a clever retort, I stuck my tongue out at him.

Rather than this provocation getting him to move in even closer, he stepped back and leaned casually against the dresser. “Well, go on?”

“With what?” I was starting to feel a little ridiculous standing around in the buff at this point.

Dan lifted and dropped one shoulder. It took me a minute to place the expression on his face, because I had seen it so rarely. Smug, that's what it was. He looked _smug_. “I asked you questions. You haven't answered them yet.”

“What the fuck!” I sputtered. “This is sex, not an interrogation!”

“Technically speaking,” pointed out my smug asshole boyfriend, “it's not either one.” I glared at him. “Does their camp run all summer? Where's at it?”

“It's at the same place they used to go to preschool,” I sighed. “We can send them for full days, but they normally only go three days a week. I like giving them _some_ time to relax during summer, you know? Sleep in and go to the beach, stuff like that.”

He was nodding. “Sounds nice. Can I come?”

“To daycare with them?”

“To the _beach_.”

“Of _course_ you can come! Now will you get over here and touch me already?”

“I wanted to ask you about something first.” He held up a finger to hold off my request, and scratched his jaw thoughtfully. This one felt more serious, somehow. I nodded consent. “Would you be hurt if I chaperoned Xan's end-of-the-year party?” When I didn't answer immediately, he shrugged apologetically. “He asked me to.”

To tell the truth, I _was_ a little hurt. It must have showed on my face, because Dan finally stepped closer and kissed me—not sexy, but gentle. “It's okay if you'd rather do it,” he told me, and I realized that I couldn't possibly do that.

“Of course not,” I said, swallowing my pride. “I mean, yes, I'd like to, but if he asked _you_ , I'm not going to interfere with that. I think that's awesome.” I really did, and smiled to show it. “Just make sure to get lots of pictures for me.”

He smiled in relief, and fit his hands on my waist as he gave me the kind of kiss I'd been waiting for.

*

School had just gotten out for the summer and we playing _Life_ with the boys when Dan asked if I'd help him practice for an audition.

I turned to him with my mouth slightly open, and snapped it shut. “Where?” I asked, feeling my eyes light with excitement. “For what?”

He shrugged as though he didn't care, but a telltale corner of his mouth had pulled upward. “Just the Riverwalk. They're doing _Salesman_.”

“Ohhh,” I breathed. It made sense that he'd want to be involved in that one, even if it was only community theater in Lansing, Michigan. “Are you reading for Willy?”

“Mommy, it's your _turn_ ,” Wes sighed impatiently.

“Sorry, love.” I spun the dial quickly and jumped my plastic car along five spaces. “Tornado hits your house, pay twenty thousand if not insured. Good thing I got insurance, eh? Your turn, Xan.”

I turned my attention back to Dan, and waited.

“I'll audition for Willy,” he agreed, sounding wary. “But if there's anyone decent over the age of fifty, he'll get it before I do.”

“Well, you're the right age for his sons,” I said thoughtfully. “You'd make a pretty good...what was his name? Brick?”

That made him smile. “Biff. Brick was the husband in _Cat_.”

“Of course.” I grinned, and poked him with my toe under the table. “You played him.”

“Biff?” This had caught Xander's attention. “Biff Tannen?”

“Biff _Loman,_ ” Dan explained. “In a play called _Death of a Salesman_.”

“Huh.” Xander processed that. “How come all these characters in shows have names like Biff, but you never meet _anyone_ named that in real life?”

“You know, that's a solid point,” I nodded. “Any ideas, pumpkin?”

“Stupid nicknames are more fun for playwrights,” he answered without hesitation. “What other explanation can there be?” It was his turn, and he spun a two. “Baby girl, congratulations.” I grabbed a LIFE tile and a little pink piece for him. He added it to his car. “What should we name her, honey bunny?”

I rolled my eyes, but smiled. “Don't ask me, I'm way too old to be having any more kids. So when is this audition?”

“No you're not. It's next Thursday. I'm going to pick up a copy of the script tomorrow.”

“That's awesome. You let me know what I can do to help, and I'll do it.” I paused to count out a salary for Wesley. “But you don't really need help. You could probably get the role just on the merits of a cold read-through. You know that, right?”

“You're going to jinx it.”

“Not possible. I've seen you act.”

“Anything's _possible_. Sometimes these community theater groups can get super cliquish.”

“I guess so. But you're _good_ , and a little confidence never hurt, either.”

“I'm auditioning for the lead role, that's not enough confidence for you?”

I kicked his leg playfully again under the table, and beamed at him. “It is.” I spun an eight.

Later that night, in bed, I paused the movie we were watching and rolled over to rest a hand on his chest. “I can't tell you how happy it makes me to see you auditioning for something.”

“It's just community theater.”

“You're determined not to get excited, aren't you? Yes, it's just community theater, but it'll get you out of the house doing something you love. And people besides me will get to see how amazing you are.”

“Yeah, yeah.” This time, though, he rewarded me with a smile. “You never give up, do you.”

I wiggled happily against him. “I'm an optimist. It's what I do.”

“You probably think I'm going to get cast in the lead, too, don't you.” He observed it dryly, he wasn't asking.

“Actually, I don't know,” I admitted. “I know you'll be incredible if you do, but you're right about being a bit young for the role. Will you be really disappointed, if they cast you as Biff or Happy instead?”

He thought about it in silence, and I knew he wanted to give me an honest answer. Finally, he sighed. “Yes. But I'm prepared for it, and they're not bad roles by any stretch. I'll take it and hope I can handle the jealousy.”

“Jealousy? Oh, against whatever old bastard gets your role. Hopefully he's a saint, then.”

“Sharon.” He kissed my forehead. “Honey. We're talking about theater here. There _are_ no saints.”


	6. Chapter 6

Maybe there were no saints, but there was Robert. The retired grandpa of five who got Dan's role wasn't a professional actor, but he'd been doing productions with the Riverwalk Theater for the better part of a decade, and he was hilarious. Not in the role of Willy, of course, but every night Dan came home laughing about something Robert had done during rehearsal. I hadn't even met the old guy, but I wanted to hug him.

And suddenly, for the first time since I'd met him, my boyfriend had _friends_. Not just sending his old school friends the occasional message, but actual people in Lansing—adults besides me who he actively wanted to be with. Almost overnight, I was no longer the one who worried about sharing my time with other people. We still had time together in the mornings on the days the boys went to day camp, but Dan usually vanished for rehearsal shortly after I picked them up. And at least once a week I'd get a text from him around eight o'clock saying that he was hanging out with Robert, or Neil and Matt, or all of the above plus some other cast members, and not to wait up for him.

It was wonderful. I guess I could have been jealous, and in some ways I was; I'd been in theater back in the day, after all, so I had some idea of the hilarity, work, and camaraderie I was missing out on. If not for the kids, I'd have been auditioning, too. But I couldn't resent Dan having something good, either. I'd seen the way he came alive when he was reading parts (and, since I helped him memorize his lines at home, I'd seen him as Biff Loman) and I'd known getting back into some sort of show would be good for him. But it wasn't the role he'd wanted, and the Riverwalk was a far cry from Broadway, so I hadn't realized _how_ good this would be. To say he was like a different person would be an insult to the man who'd been sharing my house for the past three months, and his attitude toward me and the kids hadn't changed at all—but he was certainly more alive, and more upbeat, than I'd ever seen him.

We took small vacations over the course of the summer; sometimes I'd take the boys for a long weekend up north, or sometimes Dan would get a few days with no rehearsals and we'd all go. Showing him Lake Michigan for the first time was pretty magical; he stood there in his swim trunks, staring out at the sun shining off the water, and then turned to me in awe. “It's like home,” he'd said, and his face had broken into a surprisingly boyish grin as the waves crashed over his bare feet. “It's so much like the beach at home.” I'd shared his grin and reminded him that here, you didn't get salt water up your nose.

By the time Wesley's birthday rolled around in August, Dan had become an accepted member of the family. The boys went to him for something almost as often as they came to me—in Xan's case, maybe a bit more, because he was eleven now and starting to deal with puberty issues. For someone who claimed to be indifferent on kids and unfit to be a dad, my pumpkin did a pretty good job handling all of it. The first time Wesley gave him a hug and told him he loved him, I wasn't the only one to melt. Dan had come to bed and lay there staring happily at the ceiling, his arms crossed behind his head. “I finally made it big,” he'd told me. “How does one hug from a little kid make me feel like I just got handed an Oscar?”

I'd rested my head on his shoulder and let my fingers drift lovingly over his chest. “Because Wesley's a much tougher audience than the Academy?”

He laughed. “I guess he is, in some ways. I never thought, when I came here...I was prepared to live with your kids, and I was ready to like them. I didn't really expect them to like _me_.”

“But they do.” I rubbed the tip of my nose against his cheek. “I told you they would, didn't I. They love you.”

In the dim lighting of the room, his eyes seemed to shine. “I love _them_.”

He sounded awed by the admission. “That's weird to you, isn't it.”

There was silence as he tried to find the right words, and his arm wiggled its way around my back, pulling me comfortably close. “Not that _I_ love _them_ , really. I just didn't think I'd have much to offer them.”

My fingers moved from his chest to his face, tracing his neck and the lines of his jaw. “You just said exactly what you have to offer them, though. What kids want more than anything is love.”

“And you?” He kissed me gently, barely brushing the top of my mouth with his lips. I shut my eyes, trying to contain my happiness. “What do _you_ want?”

I hoped that my voice held my smile. “I already have everything I want,” I told him, and this time my lips met his.

*

I went to every performance of _Death of a Salesman_. I enjoyed every performance, too; it was certainly weird to watch my boyfriend completely disappear and see some total stranger walking around wearing his face, but I'd gotten over most of that during my many nights listening to him memorize lines and try out monologues. It _was_ weird to see him transform so completely into someone else, maybe more-so because I understood how acting worked. He was finding himself inside Biff. He found himself inside all the characters. They were all him, and yet none of them were _him._ God, but he was convincing, though. No matter how many times I saw him on the stage, that same sense of mixed amazement, adoration, and pride swept through me. He belonged there.

The first night, I went around the back of the building to the stage door and waited there for the cast to come out. I beamed at Matt, Lauren, and Robert (now that I'd seen the show, I had faces to go with their names) as they went by, but stayed in my spot against the brick wall. When Dan emerged he was back in his favorite jeans and a faded BOC t-shirt, and he'd washed most of his stage make-up off. He almost walked past me, probably focused on catching up to his friends, but there was only the briefest flash of surprise in his face when I did catch his attention.

“Excuse me, sir?” I asked, and he spun around. Still pretending not to know him, I held out a pen and my copy of the program. “Could I have your autograph, please? You were incredible.”

He stepped up very close, so that he loomed over me. “Is that really all you want?”

My facade broke, and I grinned. “You could shove me up against this wall and reenact our first date, if you wanted. You _were_ incredible.”

He stooped down to kiss me, but afterward he grabbed my hand and pulled me further along the wall toward the small group of cast members. He hailed them, and as soon as half of them were looking in our direction he presented me as though I were something exciting he'd discovered. “This is my girlfriend, Sharon.”

“So this is the woman behind our star,” Matt said gravely, and offered me his hand. Dan pretended to look embarrassed at this description, but I could tell he loved it. 

I shook his hand. “I don't deserve any credit for his talent,” I dismissed the praise with a smile.

“No, but you deserve credit for bringing him to us,” Matt countered. “It's a pleasure.”

I stared at my feet, as awkward at being praised as my boyfriend was pretending to be. “I don't think I deserve that, either. But I'm glad he's here.”

“So are we,” Robert said, stepping forward to take my hand. “Having him on the cast has made all of us try harder, you know. He's a rare talent.”

“Did you really find him working on the Jungle Cruise ride?” Matt was smiling as though this were some running joke, not a fact that could actually be true.

I turned to Dan. “Tell them your whole life story, did you?”

He shoved his hands in his jean pockets. “That's what you do with your friends.”

“Especially when you're stuck sitting around in the wings for forty-five minutes waiting for your cue,” Neil said with a laugh. I jumped, since I hadn't heard him come up behind us, but he had a playful smile. “So we finally meet the famous Sharon?”

I looked back to Dan again, this time in horror, and he laughed. “You're part of my life story, honey bunny. Everyone here knows you.”

I felt myself blush. “What did you tell them?”

“Oh,” said Neil airily, “all about your kinks, your eating habits, your bathroom habits, you know...”

“That's not funny,” Robert scolded him, though the twinkle in his eyes made me doubt he meant it. Anyway, I was already fighting a case of giggles and didn't need rescuing. He noticed that, and smiled kindly. “Would you like to join us? We were all going to go get a drink downtown.”

“Do I have to dance?” I magnified my natural sense of dislike at that thought, and leaned in closer to him as I stage-whispered “Dan's never seen me dance, and I really _like_ dating him.”

In response to that, Dan put his hands around my waist and pulled me into a kiss. “Is it as bad as your singing?”

“Right here, mister.” I stepped back and showed him my middle finger, beaming the whole time.

“Oh I like her,” Neil declared with a wolfish smile. “How do we get _you_ into some of our shows?”

“You wait another seven years until my kids can be left home alone regularly,” I shot back, but I was grinning almost as wide as Dan.

“No, really, come with us,” he said, keeping his arm looped around my waist. “Robert's wife is in the cast, so she'll be there, and if Russell comes I'm sure he'll bring his husband, too.”

“Diane's bringing her boyfriend along, too,” Neil offered unapologetically. “I just heard them talking. And he's not even on crew.”

“See? You're not intruding.” He pulled me close to kiss my neck, and breathed “I want to show you off to my friends” into my ear.

I caved.

It was almost twenty minutes before everyone was ready to leave, which gave me plenty of time to call up the sitter and ascertain that my arriving home two hours late would not be a huge problem. Luckily it wasn't a teenager, so we were in good shape. By then, our group had grown to include most of the cast. In addition to me and Dan there was Robert, Lauren (who had played Dan's mom even though she couldn't be more than ten years older than us), Neil, and Matt. Robert's wife Kathy (who had played The Woman) had emerged, too, along with one of the two pretty young girls in the cast and a short blonde guy I didn't recognize. The girl was Diane, and she greeted me with unaffected enthusiasm. We also collected a thin, balding guy named Greg who seemed much smaller out of his Uncle Ben role. That appeared to be it; Matt was married, but his wife was home tonight, and the remaining cast members had other places to be.

By then I knew that our destination was the Tin Can, a very short walk from the theater. It was a warm late summer night, so the stroll was pleasant. Dan had explained to me while we waited around that because of its cheapness and proximity to the Riverwalk, this was a frequent post-rehearsal haunt of theirs. He promised me I wouldn't have to dance, even though there was a jukebox inside, and assured me they had really good food.

“How are their martinis?” I asked, elbowing him lightly in the ribs are we walked. “I just realized I've never seen you drunk.”  
“No, but you've seen me cry. You're not missing much. You, however—we are going to get you completely trashed.”

“No!” I felt myself redden. “I get horny when I'm drunk.”

“You're always horny.”

I gave him an embarrassed grin. “Yeah, but...I mean, I'll probably flash my tits at everyone.”

“This is theater, honey. No one will even blink.”

“I'll get us kicked out of the restaurant.”

He laughed happily. “I'll stop you before that. Okay?”

“Don't let me pass out, either. I don't want to embarrass you.”

“You could never embarrass me.”

“Wanna bet?”

He laughed again, and we hurried to catch up to the others.

We got a long table on the deck outside, because while everyone enjoyed music—Diane in particular wanted to dance—it was much harder to have a conversation inside with all the other noise. There was only one other small group outside right now, so we were able to converse easily while perusing the menu. It seemed like everyone else had been here so often they knew what to order without even looking, but I didn't need to browse the list for very long, either. Dan simply jabbed the point of one long finger at a section titled _Faygo Bombs_ and I knew what I was having. The only real question was which to try first. I went with the blueberry vodka/island blue sour/cream soda combo, and elected to just poach a few of my boyfriend's fries instead of ordering food.

My seat was between Dan and Lauren, and across from Neil and Matt. Dan chatted enthusiastically with Robert, who was on his other side, which gave me a chance to visit on my own if I wanted. I discovered that Lauren was dryly hilarious. She had smoked the entire time we were outside the theater and walking, and now that she'd had to stop she seemed twitchy. She sipped at her beer instead, and gave me friendly gossip about everyone in the show.

“Now I wonder,” she said in a polite undertone, “whether Diane's boyfriend is here because Melissa skipped out, or if Melissa skipped out because Diane's boyfriend is here.”

The couple in question were sitting across and further down the table from us, but they still probably could have heard if they'd had eyes for anyone but each other. “Have they been dating long?” I inquired, mimicking Lauren's tone.

“Only a few weeks. We heard all about it when she started dating him—or at least, Melissa did, and the rest of us can't help but hear.”

“So Melissa was the other girl, right? Miss Forsyth?”

Lauren nodded. “She and Diane auditioned together. I gather they know each other from college.”

“They look so young, are they still _in_ college?”

She laughed. “No, but you're not far off. Diane just got a job in marketing, that's where she met this guy. Melissa's going on to get her masters in Women's Studies.” Lauren took a look at the politely detached look on my face, and laughed loudly. “I can tell just what you're thinking! Not a fan, huh? You're more a traditionalist, from everything Dan's said. But Mel's nice, really. She's got opinions on everything, and if she's not at rehearsal it seems like she's campaigning or protesting something or other, but she's alright. She tolerates Neil here, who jokes about nearly everything she stands for, and me, even though I vote Republican.”

I nodded thoughtfully; I had a few friends like that, myself. Neil had cast a grin in our direction when he heard his name, and I smiled at him. “Lauren's telling me how you and Melissa are BFFs.” 

He laughed. “Ask her what she really thinks of me, and you'll hear a different story, I bet. But she knows how to play nice.”

“And you don't?” I lifted my eyebrows.

“I'm nice. I'm totally nice. I'm the nicest guy you'll ever meet.”

Matt leaned across the table toward me and stage-whispered “He's an asshole. He's totally an asshole. He's the biggest asshole you'll ever meet.”

All four of us laughed, Neil loudest of all.

“He must have some redeeming features, if you're all willing to hang out with him,” I suggested generously.

“Ha!” Neil pointed a finger at me. “This lady! This is a smart, smart lady. What are you doing with Dan?”

Matt rolled his eyes skyward and shook his head, but said nothing.

I gave him my sweetest smile. “I'm doing _lots_ of things with him, and I bet he does all of them better than you.”

Everyone laughed again, and Lauren nodded approvingly. “You're right, she _is_ smart.”

“So what's your story?” I asked her as the men returned to their own conversation. “When did you get into theater?”

“About three years ago, when my daughter started college.” For the first time since stepping off the stage, she sounded a little sad. “I'd gotten divorced a year before that, so suddenly I found myself all alone. I realized I needed to get some hobbies, and remembered one of my girlfriends telling me I'm a great actress, so I thought I'd give it a try.” The sorrow, if it had ever been there, was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. “This is my first leading role, but I'd say it's going pretty well!”

“You did a great job,” I agreed, but she was looking at the guy on the other side of her now.

“What do you think, Greg?”

“Figures you only decide to include me in the conversation when you're fishing for compliments,” he complained amiably.

“You're _always_ welcome to join in my conversations,” Lauren flirted lightly before bringing her attention back my way. “Ask Greg about his role as Walter White.” I gave them both a look of blank confusion, and she laughed.

“I'm a chemistry teacher,” Greg explained, looking vaguely displeased. “I get the joke all the time, so Lauren thinks it's funny to bring it up even more.”

“I'm just doing that because I like you.” She nudged him in the ribs. “By the way, this is Dan's squeeze, I just realized you haven't been properly introduced.”

“And he still hasn't been,” I laughed, and stuck out my hand to him. “I'm Sharon.”

He shook it formally. “A pleasure, Sharon.”

I blushed slightly. “Sorry for butting in tonight.”

Lauren waved a hand dismissively. “No, it's totally fine. Someone's got to make up for Russell and Mark not being here.”

“I missed it, where _are_ they tonight?” Matt interjected from across the table. “There's no way he's got a shoot right now.”

“Russ just said he was tired,” Greg shrugged.

Lauren nodded. “Mark told me he hardly slept last night. Opening night jitters.”

“Really?” Matt looked surprised by this information. “Russell? But he never worries about anything.”

“That's just what he wants everyone to think.” Lauren clearly felt like she was privy to insider knowledge here, and was enjoying it.

“So, sorry, who are Russ and Mark?” I asked, giving her a chance to extend that feeling.

“Russell played Charley,” she answered eagerly. “He's a scream, you'd love him.”

“Everyone loves him,” Matt agreed with a nod. “He's a photographer by day, wedding shots and senior portraits, that sort of thing.”

“The story he tells,” Lauren cut in, “is that he came out here to do some head shots for the cast of _A Winter's Tale_ back in the day and had so much fun that he decided to try his luck next time there were auditions.”

“And the rest, as they say, is history,” Greg added with a faint smile.

“Mark's his husband,” Lauren said, reclaiming the narrative, “He's a damn good hairdresser—I've been going to him ever since I met him—and he helps out with the make-up and costuming before all the shows.”

“Wow!” That last comment had put a metaphorical light bulb over my head. It had never occurred to me that I could volunteer to help out with the show. I'd wished I could be a part of it, but known that regular evening rehearsals were out of the question until my kids were much older. Helping as a stagehand, or with lights or something, though...that wasn't out of the realm of possibility. The time commitment wouldn't be much worse than what I was already doing, given how many shows I was coming to, and I'd feel involved. I could see Dan on stage _and_ be part of the crew.

“Are they looking for helpers?” I asked eagerly. “I'm qualified to haul scenery, and hanging out backstage would beat paying admission every night.”

“Oh, they're always looking,” Lauren smiled. “I'm surprised your boyfriend here didn't try to recruit you.”

“Yeah!” I elbowed Dan in the ribs, and he broke off his conversation with Robert to turn to me. “Why didn't you tell me I could be a stagehand?!”

“I know why,” Neil said before he had a chance to answer. “Because Dan here has the worst kind of one-track mind. Isn't that right?” 

Looking bemused, Dan shrugged, then grinned. “Yeah, that's probably right. I never even _thought_ about stagehands until I saw them during Hell Week.”

“He gets in character and whoosh.” Neil mimed something flying right over his head. “Everything else is gone. It's a miracle we know you at all, you know. Those first few nights, I seriously thought I was just going to spend two months hanging out with Biff Loman.”

“Well that wouldn't be a very good time,” I giggled. “I mean, nothing against Biff, but I like you much better.” I kissed Dan on the cheek, then leaned across the table, resting my chin on my hands as I asked Neil and Matt “So how did you break him down?”

“Little by little,” Matt smiled.

“We got him drunk,” Neil said at the same time.

I looked back and forth between them, laughing softly, and then spared a glance for Dan. He'd tipped his chair back on two legs and was staring pointedly into the dark sky above us, hands folded behind his head in an attitude of nonchalance.

After a moment of indecision I asked Neil, “How many martinis are we talking here?”

He put on a good show of struggling to remember and counting on his fingers before grinning at me. “Only three.”

I hid my giggle behind one hand. “Tears?”

Dan began whistling _It's a Small World_ into the night sky.

“Bawled on my shoulder,” Neil said delightedly. “That's when we heard _all about_ the cruelty of Hollywood and the horrors of the Jungle Cruise.”

“And the wonders of Sharon,” Matt added, looking equally amused.

“Oh, for sure,” Neil agreed. “Waxing all poetic and everything. 'She was the only light into my darkness, the one truly beautiful thing in my life—'”

Dan rocked his chair forward again. “I never said that!”

“Shut up, man, I'm trying to do you a favor here.” Neil winked very obviously at him. “Women love this shit. He said you were an angel, a ray of sunshine into the bleakness of his lonely life...”

Laughing, Dan tipped his chair back again.

“He said you had, what was it, hair like liquid silk, and tits like you wouldn't believe.”

I briefly covered my face in my hands as I heard the front two legs of Dan's chair hit the pavement again. “Hey!”

Still covering half my face, because I was sure it was red, I turned to my boyfriend. “Now that one I believe! Direct quote?”

“How do you even remember that, Neil? You were drunker than I was that night!”

“I remember the important stuff.” He tapped the side of his head proudly, and then reached across the table toward me. “Can I touch your hair?”

Laughing, I turned toward Dan and hid my face in his side.

“So that's a no, then?”

“Ignore him, Sharon, he hits on everyone,” I heard Matt say, followed by a mutter of “Including my wife.”

“Hey, he's never hit on _me,_ ” Greg objected pointedly. Neil winked at him.

“It's because he's secretly insecure,” Dan explained kindly, which earned him a campy sad-face from Neil. “He only hits on the women he's sure will reject him.” I did notice, though, that his arm went around my shoulders possessively. I liked it.

“In that case, he's right about me,” I smiled, snuggling closer to him.

At that point our waitress turned up to take orders. Since everyone had decided what they wanted within two minutes of sitting down, it didn't take long to give her the list and get back to our conversations. This time Robert and his wife Kathy made a point to include me in their conversation with Dan. I learned that though they were both retired, she had been a secretary at MSU and he was a professor emeritus of English. That was all the introduction I needed to start a discussion about literature and writing. Dan seemed happy to listen to us talking, only contributing occasional comments. Being able to discuss theater and literature with someone who knew what they were talking about was an experience I hadn't had outside the home in years.

And Robert _was_ funny. We were having a chat about the best stories in Canterbury Tales when our drinks arrived, and after half a delicious blueberry cream concoction I found his thoughts on the Wife of Bath even more hilarious. Kathy and Dan became more engaged as, in tears from laughing so hard, I tried explain the details of the Miller's Tale.

“And here I thought they were prudes back then,” Dan murmured before tossing back the last of his martini. I raised my eyebrows at him, and the corner of his mouth quirked upward. “I'm just trying to keep up with _you_.”

“Yeah, well, one of us needs to be sober enough to drive home,” I threw back lightly.

“Better stop drinking, then,” he told me seriously. “I'm the one celebrating here.”

“Guess we're taking a taxi, then,” I told him. “You said you were getting me trashed, and I don't take promises like that lightly.”

“What era do you mean by _back then_ , Dan?” Robert inquired mildly, returning to his comment about prudes throughout history. “I know you've read _Lysistrata_.”

“I _loved_ Lysistrata,” I exclaimed, and we were off and rolling again. Further down the table, I could hear Diane and her boyfriend finally peeling apart and engaging in some conversation about cats with Lauren, Greg, and after a while Neil as well. Matt joined in our talk, which eventually went back topics everybody could relate to. I got my second drink, and learned that Matt was an optometrist by day, and _Salesman_ was only the second show he'd ever been in.

“He's the only professional among us,” Robert pointed out, gesturing to my boyfriend.

“I'm not a professional,” Dan objected, but his friends dismissed this objection so easily I suspected they'd heard it on a regular basis.

“You are compared to us,” Matt stated baldly.

“Which is really unfair, because it means you're a shoe-in for every role that ever has or ever will be, and where does that leave the rest of us?” Neil demanded.

“Enjoying smoke breaks between changing sets for him,” Greg sighed, and Lauren laughed heartily.

My alcoholic root beer float wasn't quite as good as my alcoholic blueberries and cream, but it was still pretty damn good. I felt relaxed and slightly silly at this point, and unabashedly stole some fries off the plate of food now sitting in front of Dan. It was a good thing the food had arrived, to balance the liquor we were consuming. Maybe after a burger, he'd be sober enough to drive us home after all.

“I'm not a professional,” he repeated stubbornly.

Even Diane, at the other end of the table, groaned. “You're too good for the rest of us, and you know it. Shut up, Dan.”

“I love how the guy who talks like iambic pentameter is his native language is the one with the inferiority complex,” Matt remarked mildly. “Shut up, Dan.”

“You've starred in real plays in _New York Fucking City_ and went to auditions in _Hollywood_ and then you sit here with us and act like you're nothing special,” Neil added, and I'd seen the pattern and deduced that this conversation had happened many times before even before he added “Shut up, Dan.”

Dan turned toward me, looking so comically wounded that I knew it couldn't be real. “Are you going to let them talk to me like that?”

“Yes, because they like you and they've seen you act,” I said with a smile. “Shut up, Dan.”

One of the guys barked out a surprised laugh of delight, but I was already leaning in to temper my words with a soft, slow kiss his on his mouth. I wasn't drunk enough to let it go any further, but I was also very pleased that he didn't stop me.

“I am _not_ a professional,” Dan repeated again when I had settled back into my own seat. He stood up, and was it my imagination or was he a little unsteady on his feet? I glanced back at the table and saw that he'd finished his second martini before starting on his food. Over about half an hour, that was enough to work some magic even on a guy who topped out just over six-foot, especially since he wasn't a regular drinker.

I watched him like a mouse watching a snake; a little worried, but fascinated to see what he might do next. My own slightly tipsy state didn't help. “Pumpkin?” I asked tentatively.

He ignored me, and looked around the table of his friends. “I have a _right_ to this inferiority complex,” he said, pointing an accusatory finger at Matt. He didn't really seem angry, but he did put a hand on the back of his chair to steady himself. “All this?” He gestured loosely back toward the theater. “ _This_ shit? You guys don't get how _good_ it is. What I was doing before this was...was _not_ better. Lemme ask you something.”

Everyone simply stared, silence by anticipation.

“Lemme ask you...who here has been on the Jungle Cruise before?”

I gasped and clapped my own hand over my mouth. Down the table, Lauren and Neil raised their eyebrows in interest.

No one said anything, and Dan narrowed his eyes at me. “I know _you_ have.” He jabbed a finger at me, and then winked. “You know, I thought if I never did this again it'd be too soon. _But_. Here we are. So! Who here has been on the Jungle Cruise before?”

“Wooooo!” I hooted, clapping my hands a few times. He flashed me an innocent, slightly drunken, utterly endearing grin, and then walked slowly around to the head of the table. “So for the rest of you, this is your first time? Who's never been here before?”

Catching on quickly, the rest of the table provided some light applause and cheers.

“I can tell you're really excited about it,” Dan remarked dryly, and there were a few brief laughs. “Well, here we go! Alright, everybody, do something for me. Put your hands up and wave goodbye to all the nice people on the dock back there. You are _never gonna see them again_...though since you probably never saw them before now, either, that shouldn't matter much.”

He paused again, looking over the faces of his friends. I couldn't read his face anymore, because he had gone completely into character, but he certainly seemed amused. “Welcome aboard the world famous jungle cruise, where _famous jungle_ is our middle name! My name's Dan, I'll be your skipper today. We'll be traveling up the Amazon here...”

He went through the whole thing. It didn't matter that there was no river, no boat, and no animatronic animals. It didn't matter that the jokes were absolutely painful, groan-worthy specimens or that I _knew_ he loathed every last one of them. It didn't matter that he knew every member of his captive audience…or maybe it did matter. Maybe all those things mattered, and that was _why_ he was able to do it now.

“If you enjoyed your ride, I'm Dan from the Jungle Cruise. If you didn't, I'm Josh from Splash Mountain! Remember to watch your head when you're getting off the boat...or if you don't, remember to watch your language. This is a family place.” When the words stopped flowing, he stood silently for a minute, swaying just slightly as he surveyed us. Then he took a deep stage bow, arms spread wide, and slid back into his seat.

We applauded. Of course we did. What else do you _do_ after something like that? I wasn't sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry. I got up, plopped artlessly into his lap, and wrapped my arms around him. “I never thought I'd see the day when you did that volunt...no, scratch that, I never thought I'd see you do it again, period.”

His face had relaxed back into the one I loved, the one that was just Dan. His eyes were a little unfocused, his grin a little wider than usual, but it was all genuine. “I don't know what the hell came over me.”

“I'm pretty sure it was gin and vermouth,” I giggled quietly, and kissed him.

He shook his head with conviction. “No, I told you. _They_ told you. When I get drunk, I cry.” 

“Yes,” I agreed, sitting back so as not to cut him off from the rest of the table, “but you never mentioned that before you get crying-drunk, you get hilarious-tipsy.”

“Hilarious? No, I'm not funny.”

I laughed, and so did half his friends.

“I had no idea,” Matt said darkly. “When you talked about having a thankless job...I'm so sorry.”

“I dunno, I thought it was pretty good,” Diane grinned, wiping tears of laughter from the corners of her eyes. 

“You're _still_ better than any of us,” Robert said gently.

“That's about the worst script I've ever heard,” Neil offered. “It was probably written by Satan himself, only I bet Satan at least has a better sense of humor. That said, you made it almost funny.”

“What, like that's supposed to prove you're not a real actor?” Lauren demanded incredulously. “Shut up, Dan.”

“You all are fantastic,” Dan responded with real feeling. “Now hurry up and drink more, so I can stop being embarrassed.”

“Just have another drink, you'll forget all about it.”

“But I've never seen Sharon drunk before, and I know she's dying to try another Faygo bomb.”

“Nah, I'm good,” I countered. “What I _really_ want is for you to finish up your dinner so I can get you out of here and rip your clothes off. You may not be aware, but you are incredibly attractive.”

That won me another easy, inebriated grin. “That's just the booze talking.”

“My _ass_ it's the booze talking. I'm drunk on _you_.”

“Yep, definitely the booze talking.”

“Do I need to show you?” I leaned forward again in his lap, suddenly feeling that making out in public was a totally awesome idea. It was probably just the last drink kicking in, he was right, but I wasn't about to admit it.

The look he gave me promised a lot of very bad (very _good_ ) things once we got home, but he shook his head. “I'm convinced, I'm convinced. Let me enjoy my food.”

I nodded, reluctant to peel myself off of him. “You've earned it.”

*

The night after that I got him flowers, the night after that my parents came, and the night after _that_ I subtly recorded some of his best scenes on my phone. Every night he got home exhausted but elated, and every night I was more than willing to give up some sleep to celebrate privately with him. After that, there was a week of rehearsals and stress for him—and time to lavish attention on the kids for me—before the second round of performances.

“ _Robert Barnett does an admiral job in the lead role,_ ” I read aloud to him the Monday after opening night, “ _but the show really shines when focusing on the two Loman sons rather than the titular salesman. Biff and Happy—played by Dan Douglas and Neil Waxman, respectively—are both dissatisfied with their lives, but the ways in which they cope are drastically different. Douglas gives us a man torn between a simple life which brings him happiness, and the respect and love of a father he resents. Conversely, Waxman creates a younger son who is outwardly successful, but inwardly unhappy and disgusted with himself. The interplay between the two brings the entire production to life. Every scene that Douglas touches, in particular, becomes vital and relatable._ ”

“It's just City Pulse,” he said dismissively, but he looked delighted.

“I'll pick up a physical copy this afternoon. The whole thing's a pretty good review. They mention you again further down.”

“Oh?” For someone who didn't think much of community theater or the local newspaper, he came to lean over my shoulder remarkably quickly.

Beaming, I passed him the phone and kissed his cheek. “They're not wrong, either. I don't want to sell the rest of the cast short because you all do a great job, but you _are_ the star.”

He was scrolling down my phone screen. “It doesn't quite match being called 'maybe the next Olivier' in _New York Magazine_. But you know what? I think I'm having more fun working on this one.”

“Seriously?” I wasn't sure which surprised me more—the way he casually dropped old praise like that, or the fact that he claimed to have more fun at the Riverwalk.

Assuming I meant the latter, he said “Seriously. Probably just because it's been so long since I really let myself get into a part and enjoy it...maybe because Biff doesn't end up killing himself at the end of the show...but yeah, I've had a good time. Like you couldn't tell?”

“I could tell,” I smiled. “I just had the misfortune of not knowing you back then, so I have nothing to compare it to.”

He considered that remark. “There's that, too. I'm not going to sell myself short, I really put myself into my roles, and I worked hard to get them. And I don't think I was a total asshole to work with. But back then I was almost _too_ into it. I took everything seriously.”

“According to Neil, you still do,” I said with suppressed mirth.

Dan rolled his eyes. “Neil was born with no filter at all. It amazes me that he can act convincingly, because offstage he just spews out every thought that enters his head and thinks he's hilarious.”

I was watching his face. “And you absolutely hope he's in the next show, don't you.”

His face twitched. “Yeah, okay, fine, maybe I do.”

Grinning, I pressed the issue. “You've already discussed it, haven't you?”

“A little,” he said with a shrug. “What role do you think I should go for?”

I went into the kitchen to empty the dishwasher. “Well, what role do you _want_? Because after this, I think you're going to pretty much have your pick.”

“That's the thing,” his voice floated out to me from the living room. “I can't decide between Jack and Algernon. What do you think?”

The next auditions were for _The Importance of Being Earnest_ , which was a personal favorite of mine. It was all too easy to see my dark, serious Dan in the straight-man role of Jack, and I was sure Neil would make a hilarious Algernon. But precisely because of that, I hesitated in my answer. “Algernon's more outside your comfort zone, isn't he?” He didn't answer immediately, and I wondered if he was caught up in reading the review. “Pumpkin?”

“I'm thinking,” the reply came back. “Yeah, I guess he is.”

I nodded thoughtfully as I put away silverware. “That's what I thought. I automatically see you more as a Jack. Which makes me think it's too obvious. Besides, I bet you'd have fun playing the bad boy.”

“That settles it,” he said decisively.

“Wow, really, it's that easy?”

“I was thinking along the same lines,” he explained. “Algernon scares me more. But that's why I should go for it.”

“You have nothing to be scared of,” I assured him.

I heard his snort even from the living room. “I have plenty to be scared of. But maybe not....not here. Not on this stage.”

*

He did get Algernon, but it was actually a very near thing. The director for this one had been in the audience for his last performance, and as a result she wanted him in her production before she even met him. According to Dan, she told him on the first night of rehearsal that she'd turned to her husband halfway through _Salesman_ and said “That's my Jack.” She went on to tell him that his audition had screwed up her entire plan, because after seeing him as Algernon she couldn't _not_ give it to him, but she'd had to find a second choice to play Jack.

Luckily she didn't tell him that in front of Matt, who had been cast as Jack. Neil was relegated to a smaller role as a butler, but he was still around. Most of the rest of the cast was different, but Dan said it would have been weird for him if it _was_ all the same people he'd just gotten to know; outside of school, theater didn't really work like that. He was just happy to have a few friends around, ready to go for a drink after rehearsal or simply sit around in the wings telling him to shut up every so often.

There was hardly any time to recover between shows. Auditions for _Earnest_ were the week after _Salesman_ closed, and rehearsals for it started almost immediately. Again, I found myself using a large chunk of my free time to help Dan practice and memorize his lines and losing him to evening rehearsals at least four days out of any given week. Again, I found myself watching my wonderful boyfriend transform into a complete stranger on a regular basis—though that brought a new set of complications this time.

“Okay,” I told him one afternoon in September, “you are making Algernon _way_ too sexy. You need to tone it down.”

He glared at me for daring to break character and sabotage the scene we were working on. But once he'd really processed my comment he sighed and forgave the transgression. “You're just getting into the scene. _Cecily_ thinks he's sexy.”

I shook my head.

“Then it's because I'm playing him, and you're already attracted to me,” he suggested, this time offering me an indulgent smile.

I shook my head again. “That's what's weird about it. I watch you say your lines and I'm standing here thinking 'jeez, I totally want to fuck Algernon.' Not Dan. _Algernon_. You realize that's fucked up.”

He gave me the mischievous playboy smile he'd cultivated for Algernon. “Not at all. I find it delightful,” he remarked in-character.

I groaned. “How does Cecily not just throw herself at you?”

“Because _Jane_ is head-over-heels for her fiancé, and ten years younger than me. If you're speaking in-character, by nineteenth century standards, Cecily _does_.”

“Well, she's got a boner for a name. She's an odd bird. Okay, leaving Cecily out of it, I maintain that every single woman in the audience will be fantasizing about you.”

“I think you're overstating things, honey.” He smiled and stepped closer, putting his hands on my waist. “I'm just going for roguish charm.”

“Are you sure? I watch you and kinda feel like you've seduced half of England, but yet I'm somehow okay with it because I'd totally go to bed with you too.”

Dan lifted his eyebrows. “You _do_ go to bed with me, every night.”

My face cracked into a wide grin; in the past few weeks we had finally mastered the art of Having Sex Without Waking the Kids Up. It wasn't quite as much fun as the louder, kinkier version, but it was a lot better than repressing all sexual urges until 9:00 the following morning. All the same, I shook my head stubbornly. “I go to bed with Dan Douglas every night. And that's nice. But I've never been with Algernon Moncrieff.”

Dan regarded me flatly. “You're telling me you want to cheat on me.” He adopted Algernon's proper accent to complete the thought: “With me.”

I grimaced. “That's the gist of it, yeah. Though...” I put my arms behind his neck, and smiled up at him sweetly. “I'd never cheat on you.”

He swept me into a dramatic stage kiss, bending me far enough backward that one of my feet even left the floor. “Are you sure about that, love?” Algernon asked me.

Knowing Dan was still in there, I stiffened my resolve. “Yes. But it is very tempting.”

“You could just call it role-play and get away with it, you know,” he purred suggestively.

“I could,” I agreed, letting my lips come tantalizingly close to his. “But I'm in love with someone else.”

His fingertips touched the hem of my shirt, grazing the bare skin underneath. “Are you quite sure? I assure you, it would be unforgettable.”

“Stop it!” I laughed, and turned my head away from Algernon's irresistible smirk. “I want my boyfriend back.”

And abruptly, he was. I couldn't even say what exactly changed, but when I dared to flick my eyes toward him again, Dan was looking back at me. “Thank you,” I murmured, and kissed him long and slow.

He pulled me back upright again, letting his hands linger on my arms. “See? If _you_ can resist him, Algernon is not going to seduce the whole audience.”

I rested my head on his chest. “Only the female half.”

“And what are you worried about?” he asked, more gently. “ _They're_ not going to seduce _me_.”

At this point, I knew better than to remind him there were prettier, younger, nicer women than me. _He_ could be as insecure as the day was long, but whenever I tried to pull that schtick he took it to mean I was second-guessing his love. I didn't doubt his sincerity or fidelity, but there were still times I felt unsettled and mundane in ways I couldn't quite articulate.

So I made a joke of it, instead. “ _This_ is why you didn't succeed in Hollywood,” I teased, snuggling closer to his chest. “You don't sleep around enough. The paparazzi would have found you boring.”

“The paparazzi can go fuck themselves, but you know, you might be on to something there.” I kept my head against his chest and felt the slight change in his breathing that I'd come to recognize as one step away from laughter. “I didn't try putting out for Harvey Weinstein. You think that might have made the difference?”

“Oh, totally,” I agreed, nodding. “That was your big break, just waiting to happen.”

“Big break in my ass,” he muttered, and I burst out laughing.

“Oh,” I sighed happily as I conquered my giggles, “I am so lucky to have you.”

Typically, Dan shook his head in disbelief, but he still looked pleased. He walked into the kitchen, where I heard him getting a glass out of the cabinet—taking advantage of my derailing his practice to get a drink, apparently. I followed him in as he turned the faucet on. “I finished paying off my hospital bill yesterday, by the way,” he said without turning around.

“Already?” I asked, pleasantly surprised. I'd tried not to pry into his finances, but I knew he'd been sending occasional payments from his California checking account.

He turned around with his glass of water, eyebrows disappearing into his hair. “Already? It took me five months.”

I slipped behind him to get myself a drink, too. “Well you had other payments to worry about, too. I still can't believe you bought the bed for me.”

He nodded reluctantly. “And my break-lease fee. I'll say this for Disney, they have good benefits, or I'd have been totally fucked.”

“Good thing you didn't quit _before_ picking up the knife, then.” I smiled as I said it, and tenderly ran my thumb along one of his scars. Five months had done a lot more than pay off his bills; he didn't flinch at the touch _or_ the remark.

Instead, he caught my hand and gave me a dark smile. “Lucky I suck at foresight?”

I grinned and tightened my grip on his hand. “I wouldn't go that far. So you're debt-free now?”

Dan nodded. “I also have about six dollars left in my bank account. I'm flat broke.”

“Sexy.” I took a sip of water, hiding my smirk behind the glass. His eyebrows, which had briefly come back into view, went up again, and I nearly choked on my water. When I finished coughing, I leaned back against the kitchen counter and shrugged. “You _know_ my type is dark, brooding, starving artists.”

“You're going to let me _starve_?” he demanded in horror, which started me laughing and coughing again.

“You could always get a job,” I told him through my giggles. “But no, I won't. I like being a patron of the arts.”

He had a long drink of water. “So you're patronizing me. I see.”

I'd been on the verge of having another sip, too, and had to stop quickly. “Quit making me laugh! You're not supposed to be funny, remember?”

With an expansive shrug, he slipped back into character. “But _I_ am. It must be having an effect.” “Shut up, Algernon.”

“Are you quite sure you don't want me to seduce you?”

Trying very hard not to laugh, I retorted “Quite sure, thank you. Dan would find out, you see. And then I'd never hear the end of it.”

He sighed theatrically and went back into the living room.

*

Honestly I was just as glad that he didn't go out and get a day job immediately, because I don't think we'd have seen each other at all the following month if he'd had one. School was back in session, rehearsals were demanding, and the holidays were rapidly sneaking up on us. My days seemed to pass in a blur of school and activities, warm fall walks and preparations for Halloween, housework and family. Back when I'd been convincing myself that Dan was just a long-distance friend, I had planned to start working again after Wes started first grade, in the interest of saving up some extra money and keeping myself busy. That prospect now seemed laughable. Where would I have found the time? Even _without_ setting time aside for my boyfriend, life was pretty crazy.

I'd been tempted to sign up for the tech crew on _Earnest_ , but it would have meant two full weeks of evenings and by that time I was frantically trying to complete Halloween costumes, carve pumpkins, and deal with a teacher who my son just did not like. Besides, if I'd been moving set pieces I wouldn't have been able to sit in the audience and enjoy the performances. Dan made sure I came along to the Tin Can again after opening night; though there were no tours through Adventureland this time, I did get pleasantly buzzed and join in a game of Cards Against Humanity that someone had brought.

Watching Dan adjust to the onset of winter in Michigan was almost as entertaining as watching him on stage, though obviously for different reasons. He staunchly refused to get out of bed in the morning until I had turned up the heat, and before I'd even dug out my gloves he had bought a pair to wear on his jogs. The upside of this, aside from having something new to tease him about, was that we spent a lot of time spread out on the floor in front of the fireplace together, watching TV with the boys on the evenings everyone was home.

It was during one of those evenings, as we stretched out on the carpet helping Wesley build a Lego set, when I asked Dan how he felt about Canada.

“Canada?” His eyes flicked up at me, then went back to the assembly book. He scratched his jaw, and swatted at the hair falling across his eyes. He needed both a haircut and a shave, but given the lack of rehearsal and the freezing wind outside, I couldn't blame him for feeling unmotivated. “They're...cold? Big? Free health care? I mean, why are you asking, exactly?”

“An ad popped up on my phone earlier for the Stratford Festival,” I told him, scooping Snowball into my lap and petting her. “And I went, holy sh....oot, why didn't I think of that sooner?”

Dan passed Wesley the necessary blocks for the next step, and propped himself up on his elbows. “Stratford-Upon-Avon?”

“Stratford upon, um...Ontario. It's actually really big. Not the city, but the festival. It's really pretty there,” I went on, spewing random memories as I tried to explain it to him. “I went a few times when I was younger. There's like five different theaters, and every summer they do a range of shows there. Emphasis on Shakespeare, but some musicals and modern ones, too. You'd be perfect for it.”

“You have my attention,” he said cautiously.

This being the invitation I was waiting for, I dumped Snowball back on Xan so that I could get up and grab my phone from the table. One quick Google search later and I was showing him the website for the festival. “You'd be performing to big crowds for an entire season,” I told him in something akin to awe. “Tourists flock to this place. And it's the people who _really_ like theater, too. You could be Macbeth on a stage in front of hundreds of people who know what the heck you're talking about, six months out of the year. It's not Broadway, okay, but it's a long way from shabby.”

He stared thoughtfully at the phone, occasionally tapping or scrolling to see something different. Then he set it down. “It looks wonderful,” he told me, “but I don't want to move again right now.”

I stared at him, lost for words, until he rolled over and rested his head in my lap. I mutely combed his bangs away from his face with my fingers, and amusement slowly found a place on his face as he watched me. “But it's perfect,” I said, feeling strangely lost.

“Why?” he asked, calmly logical. “You don't want to leave Michigan. You adore your parents. You sure as hell don't want to go somewhere _colder_ , do you?”

“No,” I admitted, “I really don't.”

“Then what's the problem?”

I shrugged. “I want you to be happy.”

He smiled, and even though the expression was upside-down from my point of view, the glow in his eyes was impossible to mistake. “I _am_ happy,” he said firmly. “It's a great _idea_ , you're right. Down the line, I might look into the audition process. They might not want me, you know. I'm not even Canadian, did you think of that?”

I hadn't, and my face must have said as much. “I just...I know how much it meant to you. I want to fix it. You _should_ be on a real stage.”

Dan made a little shrug that wasn't a denial, and I smiled a little at that. “But I don't want to move again right now. You're the one who keeps telling me to take my time recovering from all that shi...from LA. I'm enjoying the Riverwalk, okay? I like sleeping in. I like days like this. I can't do it forever, I guess, but I'm not ready to give it up.”

I wasn't upset so much as surprised; this was not the reaction I'd expected. “Okay,” I agreed, a little stunned. “Sounds good to me.”

“At least wait and see how I survive the rest of the winter,” he suggested, shifting closer to the fire and extending his bare feet toward it.

“Oh, pumpkin,” I giggled, “the _rest_ of the winter? We're just getting started here.”

He mimed shooting himself in the head, and I narrowed my eyes at him. In response he flashed me a brief, heart-melting grin. “What, I'm not allowed to joke about that just because I actually tried it once?”

“Nope. All rights revoked. Forever,” I retorted.

“Hypocrite. You say 'shoot me' at least once a week.”

I made an exaggerated sigh. “Only because it's _winter._ ”

“I like winter in Michigan. I think I'll take up deer hunting, buy myself some flannel shirts.”

“That'd go great with your scruff,” I remarked, running the backs of my fingers along his neck. “Alright, if you're really committed to this state, show me where you're from.”

That got me a flat look. “I'm from Oregon. Pretty sure Medford isn't on my hand.”

I clucked my tongue. “You're difficult.”

He cocked one eyebrow. “And you're easy.”

I feigned a gasp of indignation.

“What are you talking about?” Xander asked, leaving the sofa to sit down next to me with his rabbit.

“Boring adult stuff,” I said too quickly. At the same time, Dan airily answered “Canada.”

“Cool,” Xander responded, latching onto the Canada part. “You know they speak French _and_ English there?” He passed Snowball back to me as he rose, returning a moment later with his world atlas. I went and put the bunny back in her cage upstairs, and when I returned Xander was pouring over Canadian maps and Dan was helping Wesley build the next major part of his Lego ship.

“So when's the read through?” I asked, sitting myself directly in front of the fireplace. We were only a few weeks away from Thanksgiving now, and Dan had just scored the role he wanted in the latest Riverwalk auditions: Dr. Stockmann in Ibsen's _An Enemy of the People_. Performances wouldn't be until well into January, but rehearsals always seemed to start up in no time at all. Hopefully they'd get time off for the holidays, but I didn't have a lot of faith in that. And if a rehearsal was scheduled, Dan would be there. It didn't matter if he had a cold, or if it was Wesley's percussion recital, or if his girlfriend was completely out of commission with bronchitis, and it was hardly going out on a limb for me to assume that it wouldn't matter if it was a holiday, either.

But, I reminded myself, not everyone in community theater was married to their art, so other members of the cast would probably at least demand a break on Christmas.

“Thursday,” he responded as he showed Wes where to fit a tricky little piece. “Which means I'm still home tomorrow, if you want a night off from tagging along to karate, Xan.”

“Yes!” Xan exclaimed, looking up from his maps. “So each province has its own capitol, just like here. But Ottawa is the capitol of the whole country.” He pulled his ever-present phone out of his pocket and started searching something. I peeked over his shoulder and saw images of a city. I should have known which direction his curiosity would go. “It's only....” He paused, looking up something else. “It's only like nine hours from here. We should go!”

“You've never even been to Washington, DC,” I told him with an exhausted roll of my eyes. “Why do you want to go to Ottawa?”

“I meant _someday_ ,” he sighed like the teenager he was perilously close to becoming. “It looks cool. Why don't we ever go anywhere?”

I scoffed. “We go plenty of places! Muskegon. Chicago. Disneyland. _England_ , remember when we went to England?”

Now dedicated to being contrary, Xander rolled his eyes again and went back to perusing his atlas.

“We could go to Canada for this year,” Dan offered tentatively, looking to me before making any promises. “I hear Toronto's nice, that's not too far. And we could stop and check out the Shakespeare Festival, Sharon.”

Now _I_ was feeling contrary. “You'll probably have rehearsals all summer,” I told him—though I did refrain from rolling my eyes.

“I'll find a week,” he promised. “Maybe over spring break. Lemme look at the Riverwalk schedule again. They're doing _Iceman_ this spring, I was going to sit one out before then anyway.”

“Really?” Xander was excited by the prospect, and I found myself smiling, too.

“Where's Toronto?” Wesley demanded, and Xan eagerly began showing him in the book.

Dan looked regretfully at me over their heads. “I shouldn't have said anything. It'll be coming out of _your_ pocket.”

I reached out and threaded my fingers between his. “And you know me well enough to know I don't mind one bit. We can afford a few days in Canada next year. Do you have a passport?” The boys and I still had valid ones from our trip to England three years ago, but Dan had never mentioned being out of the country.

Sure enough, he shook his head. “I don't even had a Michigan driver's license, honey.”

I fanned a contended yawn and nestled closer to him. “Well, then we know what to get you for your birthday, don't we.”

“Birthday? I don't have a birthday.”

I smiled, mostly to myself. “This year you do. This year you're spending it with us, here, instead of working the Jungle Cruise and going to bed early.”

“It's your _birthday_?” Wesley asked him in excitement. “When?”

“What do you want?” Xan added.

Dan sighed heavily, but I suspected it was mostly for show. “Why is turning a year older worth celebrating, exactly?”

“Because you almost didn't,” I scolded him gently. “And because we love you.”

“Ah.” He lay back comfortably on the floor, and I curled up against his side. “Good point.”

“ _Daaaaan_ ,” Wesley complained, “I asked when is it!”

“December first,” Xander answered for him. “It's _on_ the calendar. Can we make you a cake?”

Dan was trying very hard not to look pleased, but losing the battle. “Yeah, alright, go for it.”

“What kind?” inquiring minds wanted to know.

He gave in to his smile, and in the light from the fireplace it looked like _he_ was glowing. “Surprise me.”

*

What do you get your boyfriend for his birthday when he insists the only thing he really wants is for you to not spend any more money on him? A comically large bag of organic pretzel sticks, a few warm sweatshirts, and a lot jokes about he spent so long in California he went native. I also cooked his favorite dinner and (with Xander's help) made a nice little cake with a candle in the center—not on his actual birthday, because he predictably spent that evening at a rehearsal, but the next night.

It wasn't what _I_ got him that turned out to the memorable part, though. It was what he got _himself_ : a youtube channel. And I had Kevin Fletcher to thank for it.

Yes, Dan had meant it when he said he'd text the infamous K-Fletch and let him know he'd relocated to Michigan. From what he recounted to me, he had even told Kevin the whole story—or at least most of it. It made me suspect he'd been underestimating the friendship that still lingered between them, or at least that he'd understated it when he told me months ago that they still “kept in touch a little bit.” No, they didn't text as regularly as we had, and they didn't hang out often the way he did with Neil and Matt these days, but it _was_ actual communication. Maybe since getting off the Jungle Cruise, Dan found it easier to talk to someone he knew back in the day. Or maybe, since Kev was a family man, Dan liked having some kids to talk about too—even if they weren't technically his.

At any rate, Kevin had repeatedly complained to Dan about not being able to see any of his performances. He wanted to at least be able to show his wife, he said, that his old theater buddy was the real deal. Why hadn't he ever uploaded any scenes to youtube? Even a digital version of one their high school productions would be fun to see. Dan had hedged, of course, and done his “I'm not a real actor” schtick, but at the end of the day he _did_ know he was good. And if he was going to upload scenes from _Salesman_ or _Earnest_ or anything else for Kevin, he was going to have to send it to his mom, too. Kev had promised, via text, that he'd forward any links around to the other members of the old guard who he was still friends with on facebook. He swore he'd make it go viral. And finally, my boyfriend caved.

I was absolutely on board with the idea, and probably played a small role in prodding him into it, too. He was so good, it seemed a shame that only the Lansing area would get to see him. And after all, what was the risk in posting a few monologues and some old scenes up on the internet? At worst, nothing came of it and he kept doing community theater. At best, he got internet famous. So he made an account and uploaded the scenes I'd filmed from his last two Riverwalk shows. Then he allowed me to record him doing a few monologues, and once he was satisfied with the product he uploaded those, too. About a week after we did that he had a dozen followers, including myself. It seemed unlikely that Kev would succeed in the capacity he'd promised, but all the friends who saw it did say they were sharing it around. Either way, Dan allowed me to keep finding monologues for him to rehearse and record.

There _was_ almost a full week of no rehearsals at Christmastime, which we put to good use. Christmas morning itself started at six in the morning when Wesley wiggled into bed beside me. He had done this before on occasion, usually after a bad dream or if he wasn't feeling well, and it had become less awkward each time. I mean, yes, in the days before Dan it had been a semi-regular occurrence, but the first few times my little guy had climbed onto the bed and shook my shoulder until I floundered into wakefulness enough to peel myself off my boyfriend...well, that was different. Luckily we both wore some form of pajamas to sleep, though I sometimes wondered whether I'd bother if the kids weren't home.

At any rate, I was ready for the cold little feet, shaking of my arm, and repeated whispering of “Mommy!” The fact that it was almost dawn was to be viewed as a luxury on a day like today.

I rolled over and yawned. Dan grunted and shifted in his sleep, and I glanced at him fondly before focusing on my son. “Is Xan up, too?” I asked, fanning a yawn.

“Not yet,” Wes admitted unwillingly, looking displeased with the fact.

I nodded, unsurprised. “How long have you been up?”

“ _Ages,_ ” he said, which probably meant all of ten minutes. At least he'd tried.

I glanced at the clock. “Let's give him just a little longer, then,” I suggested, and wrapped my arms around him. “You can snuggle here.”

We dozed back off for a short while, but it was still barely getting light out when I opened my eyes to find him staring at me in wide-eyed excitement. I smiled. “Okay. You go wake up Xander. I'll get Dan moving, and when everyone's downstairs you can open your stockings.” He tumbled eagerly off the bed and hurried out the door.

I rolled back toward Dan, pushing myself up on one elbow so I could squeeze his shoulder lightly. “Pumpkin.” I brushed his hair with my fingers, and leaned over to kiss the line of his jaw. I liked it when we were both lying down, because it meant I could reach to kiss his face; if we were both standing, he had to lean down for my mouth to reach anywhere above his chin.

He stretched slowly, and then gorgeous dark eyes opened for me. He blinked, extended his arms above his head in a fuller stretch, and turned toward me. He blinked at the dim room sleepily.

“Christmas,” I reminded him with another brief kiss. “I've kept the wolves at bay as long as I can.”

“Coffee,” he muttered, and gradually sat up.

“Prepped last night,” I responded with holiday cheer. “I'll go flip the switch and in five minutes we'll be sipping from mugs of coffee so black it hurts to drink.”

He lay back down and shut his eyes. “Great. Wake me when it's in the mug.”

“Fuuuuuuck youuuuu,” I retorted lightly, dragging out the words. He didn't respond, so I went downstairs to turn up the heat and flip the switch on the coffee maker. I heard Wesley yakking impatiently in Xander's room as I passed; he didn't seem to be having much more luck than I was. The thought made me smile.

Xander and Wesley rushed down the stairs while I was still waiting in the kitchen, and for a split second I thought about letting them get started without hauling Dan out of bed—but I couldn't do it. He was integrated into the household now, and it wouldn't be right for him to miss the experience. I waited until the coffee was literally in the mugs before I sent Wesley back upstairs to wake him. I listened as he ran up the steps, heard a male “oof” of displeasure as he presumably jumped right onto the sleeping form, and then smiled as faint sounds of conversation filtered down. They both descended a minute later: Wes leaping down the steps in his pajama pants, Dan looking disheveled and hanging on to the railing. I met him at the foot of the steps with his coffee.

“Honestly,” I murmured as he claimed it, “you're getting almost as bad as I am, with coffee.”

He shook his head stoically. “I'm not addicted. I only need it when I have to get up before sunrise.”

“Which is what I do every day,” I replied airily, “which is probably why I'm addicted.”

“Good point.” He walked over to the sofa and sank down. I curled my legs under me and settled myself beside him, leaning into his shoulder.

Despite Xander's initial unwillingness to wake up, he was now excitedly emptying the contents of his stocking onto the floor alongside his brother. Santa had brought them the usual assortment of small gift cards, candy, and funny but useless gadgets. They seemed pleased, and there were a few exclamations of “Cool!” and “Look, Mom!” but the main course was lying around the bottom of the tree. Xan proclaimed himself Santa, and set about distributing the gifts according to the names on them. Most, of course, were for the boys, and had been put there by myself the previous night. But a few I didn't recognize had magically appeared, too.

I nudged Dan in the side, and tipped my head toward the tree to indicate the new arrivals. “When did _you_ go shopping?” I paused. “And I thought you were broke!”

A smile that wasn't quite a smile manifested itself beneath his shadowed eyes and mussed hair. “Turns out some of my Disney Dollars actually _were_ collectibles. I sold them on e-bay.”

“No shit,” I remarked in a whisper, impressed.

The tired smile became more like a smirk. “I was surprised, too.”

I grinned and took a long sip of my coffee. “As long as you're not selling yourself on the streets.”

“I sold myself to the MSU science program, does that count?”

“This one's for you!” Xander announced breezily, dumping a poorly wrapped box into my lap. I looked to Dan, who shrugged backward and put up the hand that wasn't holding his mug: _not me_. I thanked Xan, unwrapped a box of chocolates, exclaimed in delight, and thanked him again. He must have spent his own money on it, bless him.

“When did you take him shopping?” I asked softly as Xan presented Wes with one of the gifts from “Santa.”

“I didn't,” Dan murmured around the edge of his coffee. “He asked me to pick some up for you on the way to rehearsal last week, and paid me back.”

I smiled and shook my head. “You guys are too smart. So what's this about selling yourself to MSU? You're a guinea pig now? Should I be worried?”

He took another sip before shaking his head. Wesley yelled “Thank you, Santa!” and started loaning his new Nerf weaponry. Xander found one for himself, and sat down to open it.

“Just some psych studies they were paying people to participate in. Calm down.”

I yawned. “I wish I'd taken a shower before coming down here. I can't wake up without a shower. As long as you're not selling sex or blood, I'm good.”

This time he smiled ruefully. “Pretty sure no legitimate people are going to accept my blood, honey bunny.”

I winced. “Good point. Well, good. You need it more.” I nuzzled his shoulder with my nose. “And you shouldn't have. I don't need anything, you know that.”

He caught the yawn from me, fanning one of his own as we watched the boys. “Yeah, I do. But I needed to do it. Anyway don't thank me till you've opened it.”

There was actually two presents, not counting the chocolates from Xander and hand-made book from Wesley. The first was a new camera—water resistant, with lots of memory and all sorts of fancy video options. Dan looked embarrassed. “You're always wishing you could do more, when you're recording stuff,” he explained, and I knew that by _stuff_ he meant _me_.

I read the features on the box in awe. “It's awesome. I just hope I can figure out how to _use_ it. You know how stellar I am with technology.”

“You'll get it,” he told me with loving confidence.

The other gift was a blu-ray copy of _Twelve Angry Men_. I grinned and kissed him. He still tasted more of toothpaste than coffee, and the effect was very pleasant. “Thanks, Juror Twelve,” I murmured, and giggled.

“Rice pops,” he murmured back, and winked at me. “It's a product I worked on, you know. At the agency.”

I giggled again.

He'd given Xander a fancy notebook for writing stories, or songs, or artwork, or composing. It wasn't exciting, exactly, but he'd _use_ it, and he seemed pleased. Wesley got a few new movies, to replace the ones that were scratched almost beyond use. He wasn't excited, either, but I nodded approval and hissed my thanks.

Dan himself had to open a package which had arrived from Audrey last week, as well as few choice items from myself and the boys. I'd gotten him a gift card to Whole Foods, so he could hopefully buy some satisfactory produce for a change, a mystery novel, and a few movies I knew he liked and didn't have. I felt like there should have been more, for a man I cared so much about, but there wasn't really that much he needed. His mom had sent him an Amazon gift card, a good-quality theater make-up kit, and socks. I raised my eyebrows politely at the socks, and he laughed.

It was a good Christmas. By the time we finished opening gifts, all of us were relatively awake and functional. After a quick shower, I felt even better. We put on one of the new movies and had a light breakfast, giving the boys plenty of time to enjoy their new possessions. By lunchtime, we were ready to head up to my parents' house. This was exciting because, though my entire family knew _about_ Dan by now, he had not actually met my cousins—or even my little sister and her husband. Predictably, then, the afternoon was barely-controlled chaos, but it seemed to go alright for all that. I got some nice visiting in, the boys were delighted with more gifts, and Dan seemed to make a good impression on everyone without completely draining himself. We played a card game, had a huge dinner, and crashed in the spare bedrooms there.

The next day, we went sledding. Despite my (and Wesley's, and Dan's) general dislike of freezing temperatures, this was remarkably fun. We had two sleds, and changed up the “teams” every few runs down the hill so that I got to freeze my ass off and try not to tumble off the sled with each of my kids at different points during the afternoon, not to mention trying to cram myself into the same sled with Dan at one point, squashing his long legs and laughing myself sick when I fell out halfway down the hill. I got some great pictures and watched everyone enjoy themselves, which actually made up for my frozen toes, fingers, and ears. Thawing out with cocoa and 80s holiday movies in front of our fireplace was just as good.

The days that followed were almost frustratingly slow. Dan watched the boys so that I could escape outside for some exercise, and Xander was getting better at picking up after himself, but cabin fever still started knocking at my door after a few days. We played a lot of board games and built some snowmen outside, and caught up on a little bit of sleep. I was _very_ glad that I had mastered the art of having sex quietly, because I would have lost my mind if I'd had to keep my hands off Dan for a full week. But it was nice having all the people I loved most around, and as we got further from the holiday more things to do presented themselves. Xan went to hang out with his friends, and I took Wesley to an indoor playground. We had their mutual friends over twice. The mall and the museums opened back up. There was even one day of almost-nice weather.

And then it was over, and we dived unceremoniously back into the normal flow of school and activities. Winter flew by. The performances for _Enemy_ were in January, and after that Dan took the promised four weeks off to spend extra time with me. Most of that was spent in the bedroom, rehearsing monologues, or in front of the TV, but I enjoyed the extra time with him. The last week of it, almost into March, we used for vacation. It was too cold and too early to want to go to Canada, but we _did_ take the kids to see Washington, DC—which I had wanted to do for years, and which we managed to enjoy despite the long drive and the snow. By that point we were doing a new youtube video almost every week, and some of them featured bit parts for me, Neil, Matt, and even Xander on occasion. It hadn't taken off overnight or anything, but its audience was growing and there were a lot of positive comments posted. I was ridiculously proud.

Not that winter was easy. As always, all my muscles seized up. Xander hated getting up while it was still dark out. Dan never went anywhere without a sweatshirt on, and was so bad at driving in snow that he asked me to drive him places sometimes. Wes and his teacher had learned to work with each other, but he was never especially excited to go to school, either. My car needed expensive repairs and was out of commission for almost a week. The kids were still lousy at picking up their dirty socks. One of Xan's female friends declared herself in like with him, but after a week of “dating” he realized he didn't share those feelings. I needed fresh air but hated the biting cold.

And yes, the man I loved was sometimes moody and distant. He could get far too into a role and be oblivious to everything else for a day. He could get depressive about his failures and lie around sulking. These were no longer frequent or major causes for concern, but he wasn't always the easiest guy to live with. If I'd been a jealous woman, I might have resented all the time he spent on rehearsals and line-memorizing and his theater friends, because for about a week out of every month it felt like I wasn't living with him at all. All these things were sort of par for the course in my mind. No man was perfect; I'd met him when he was pretty miserable; and he was, after all, an actor.

The one thing that really started to wear on me, as snuggled in bed, made more and better youtube videos, helped the boys with homework, skyped with his mother, got him a role in yet another Riverwalk production ( _Richard III_ ), had snowball fights, watched countless movies and made love countless times...the only thing that really bothered me was what _wasn't_ happening.

It had been almost a year, now, since I'd rushed across the country to try and save a desperately unhappy skipper from himself. It had been over eighteen months since he'd first shoved me up against an LA alley and kissed me. It had been six months since he started really making Michigan his _home_ , and five since Wesley had said he loved him. We were happy—at least, I thought we were happy. We were in love—right?

I've always been an optimist, I told myself. Maybe I was just getting ahead of myself. Why shouldn't Dan settle into his new life and enjoy what we _had_ , without throwing any more labels or complications onto it? Why couldn't this be enough for me? I _had_ him, surely that was the important thing.

Only...did I?

It was stupid of me, I knew it was stupid, but he was so damn talented, and I was just this almost-40-year-old full-time-mom from the Great Lakes region. I was in decent shape, and I was sweet, and I felt like I was good in bed, but he didn't really belong with me. He belonged out there, with some gorgeous actress or screenwriter on his arm, and maybe deep down he knew it. Maybe this was all just some pleasant interlude for him.

Not that I ever thought he'd use me like that. I knew he cared about us, a lot. I knew if I tried to ask him, he'd ferociously deny it and take offense. But time was wearing on, and there had been no mention whatsoever of the Big M. I didn't want to pressure him, I didn't mind waiting, but it hadn't even been _discussed_. In any way. Never mentioned lightly, never planned for in the “some day” sense. Not even on the table.

So it made me worry. Just a little bit. What he felt deep down, now that he'd had a chance to make some new dreams for himself.

Finally, one morning a few weeks before he went on stage as Richard III, I worked up my courage and tried to articulate what was bothering me. We were sitting in the living room: him on the sofa reading a script, me on the floor folding laundry. Pandora was playing something I didn't recognize, and spring sunlight was peeking through the windows.

“Pumpkin?” I ventured, focusing on folding a child-sized polo shirt.

“Hm?”

I glanced his way. He was still looking at the script.

I sighed and tried again. “Dan?” Since I was watching, I saw his eyes flicker over the top of the papers, looking curiously at me. Waiting for me to go on. I bit my lip.

He put the script down and really _looked_ at me. “Everything okay?”

I nodded slowly, and let out the breath I'd been holding. Sadly, it didn't take any of my tension with it. “I'm just...lemme ask you something.”

He got up, walking over to me and folding himself into a seated position on a space of floor that wasn't covered with stacks of clothing. His brow was furrowed in a little V of concern. “Go ahead.” 

I nodded again. “If all your dreams had come true,” I began. “If your life had gone as you planned, and you were attending Hollywood premieres in between filming blockbusters and dating supermodels...what would you think of me?” I couldn't meet his eyes anymore, and grabbed another shirt. “Would you even look twice?”

There was a long pause. I finished folding the shirt (one of mine) and looked up at him again. “That's not an easy question,” he told me in a voice that was almost, but not quite, angry.  
Just like I'd thought. “Because I won't like the answer,” I offered heavily.

“Fuck that,” Dan said, and my head snapped up. He _was_ irritated. “I don't ask _you_ whether you'd have given me your number last year if the father of your kids hadn't fallen asleep at the wheel and removed himself from the equation.” He paused long enough to take a breath, and maybe let his words sink in. “I know the answer. I just guess I'm lucky he did, even though that makes me sound like a complete shit.” He sounded grim now. I regretted asking. “And you don't want to say it,” he went on, “but you're lucky _my_ dreams didn't come true, right?”

He watched me, waiting for some acknowledgment, but I felt frozen. I just stared at him with wide eyes. After a few seconds, he gave up on getting a response from me and shook his head. “You know what, though? So am I.” I felt my own brow start to furrow. What was he saying here? This was not where I thought he was going when he started scolding me, not at all.

“I want to act,” he went on. “It's all I've ever been good at and all I've ever loved. I'm always going to want that and want people to see it. It's who I am.

“But I love this, too. I love you, I love Xan and Wes, I love the lakes and the trees and the sense of _peace_ here. I don't want some bimbo girlfriend who hires a dietician and a personal trainer and a stylist and a nanny. Maybe I would, if I didn't know what this was like. But I _do_. Trading this for LA and paparazzi and talk shows would be like trading water for champagne. I like champagne, but you can't live on it. I need you.” He picked up a pile of laundry, moved it aside, and crawled closer to me. I felt his hand on my shoulder, and it was warm and reassuring and good, but I couldn't see very well because tears were blurring my eyes. “I need _you_ ,” he repeated, and the anger had left his voice.

I managed to somehow fling myself into his arms without actually leaving my sitting position, and clung to him tightly. “I love you,” I choked out, and started crying into his neck.

“I love you, too, honey.” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “Why would you think I didn't?”

“Because you're so _good_ ,” I tried to explain. “You're wasting yourself here.”

“Sharon.” He was stroking my hair, gently pulling out the tie at the end of my braid. “Sharon, shh. If not for you, I wouldn't be acting _anywhere_.”

I sniffled. “You don't have to stay with me out of some sense of gratitude. I'm glad I did it. I'm glad I know you.”

He was slowly running his fingers through my hair now, pulling the damp twists apart from each other until it fell loose over my shoulders. “It's not gratitude. I want to be here. Okay?”

I nodded mutely, and held him tighter.

I felt his sigh, though he no longer seemed upset. “What do I have to do, to convince you this is exactly where I want to be?”

I could have said a lot of things, I suppose. I could have pushed the issue. _I_ could have brought up that all-important word. But perhaps my courage had run out for the day, or maybe he'd said enough to temporarily still my inner doubts. At any rate, all I actually answered, was “Just hold me.”

*

“You have gray hair!”

This announcement was followed by a rather pregnant pause. “You sound _way_ too excited about that, honey bunny.”

I laughed delightedly, and ran my fingers through the spot near his left ear when I'd found them. “I _am_ excited! I love them!” I found them again and leaned in closer, counting. “Two...three, four...five...eight! There's at least eight. Here, let me check the other side.”

“No!” Dan sat up, bringing his hands protectively up to his hair. 

I made an exaggerated sad face for his benefit. “Why not?” A thought occurred to me. “Ooh, I wonder if your chest hair will start going gray, too!”

“Does this make you feel better about yourself, somehow?” he asked gloomily, flopping back down onto the bed and allowing me to lean over and examine the right side of his head.

“Better about myself?” I lifted my narrowed my eyes, but continued my search.

“About being old.”

I stopped, sat back, and gave him a _come-on-now_ stare. “You like to pretend you're all serious and deep, and then you go and fuck with me like that! Ouch?”

“Here.” He grabbed me by my shoulders, and set me down on my back, all while grinning. “You tell me how it feels.” He leaned close enough to kiss me, but instead of getting romantic he ran his fingers along my temples. “Oh, ooh!” he exclaimed in a pretty good parody of me. “Look, a whole chunk of white hair! It's the cutest thing ever!”

I gave him another thousand-year stare. “Fuck you. It _is_ cute. Anyway, if I'm old, by your own standard you must be an old man now. Congratulations.”

He leaned back, letting the lock of my hair drift through his fingers. “Male actors don't age. They just become dignified.”

I snorted. “Tell that to Harrison Ford.”

Dan turned his face fully toward me, playing idly with my hair. “You don't think he's handsome?”

“I think _you're_ handsome.” I brought my own hand up, brushing the backs of my fingers against his cheek. “But yes, so is Harrison Ford. Everyone with a _pulse_ thinks he's handsome. Hell, I bet _you'd_ fuck him, given the chance. But he's not distinguished or dignified. He's weathered. Craggy.”

He choked on a laugh, and retorted “I would _not_ fuck Harrison Ford. He'd expect me to be the bottom, and you have absolutely ruined me in that regard.”

I looked at him in amusement for a moment, then sat up and swung one leg over so that I was straddling him. “So you never get tired of being in control? You never want someone to hop on and just ride you until you burst? You never wonder what that's like?”

“I know what it's like.” Gently but firmly, he shoved me back off. “I've done it.”

“Ah.” I lifted my eyebrows coolly. “Just not with me.”

“Right. Because—” He flipped himself on top of me instead, wrapping his feet around my ankles to pull my legs apart as he pinned my shoulders to the bed. “—this never gets old.” He kissed me, for long enough that I was probably ready to go when he slowly pulled his lips back. “You never make me feel like I _have_ to do anything else.”

I sighed happily and tipped my head back, hoping he'd take the invitation and kiss my neck. He did, and I made faint sounds of approval at the back of my throat. “I wouldn't want you to. You do everything I want automatically.”

He started to kiss me again, and then hesitated. “Really? You seem...kind of off, lately.”

Ugh, buzzkill. But it was sweet of him to worry. “It is nothing wrong in the bedroom, trust me.”

That got me a faint smile, but he didn't resume the romance, either. “But it's _something_. Something I've done?”

“No!” I hurried to reassure him, not realizing the taste of the lie until I'd uttered it. I paused, not wanting to lie to him. “Have I really been off?”

It was his turn to give me a _come-on-now_ stare. “You burst into tears on me while doing laundry last week.”

“Well...yes.” I winced at the memory of that. “But my period started two days after that, so take it with a grain of salt.” _Lying again_ , my brain scolded me, even though what I'd said was technically true.

Dan was having none of it. He sighed. “Don't bullshit me. What's wrong?”

Why was spitting out the whole truth so _difficult_? I grasped at the strings trailing the truth, instead. “When are we going to go visit your mom and Derek?”

He blinked in surprise. “Why?”

“Because you're putting it off, and I don't understand why. I want to meet her. I want the boys to meet her. I want to have a relationship with the woman who raised you, and see where you grew up. But mostly it just bothers me because I can't figure out why you _don't_ want that. You're not ashamed of us?”

Now he jerked back almost as if I'd slapped him. “Of _you_? Honey, I'm ashamed of _me_. Going home is...complicated.”

“But what do you have to be ashamed about?” I set my jaw, ready to reject all the usual crap. “You've got a decent life now. You're acting. You're great to me and the kids. You have friends.”

He sighed and shook his head, dismissing all of it. “You don't know what it's like. When I graduated, I was so sure I was going to be famous. And everyone _believed_ me. My mom, my friends, they all believed in me. I've gone back a few times since then. The first few times I was still in college and everyone was impressed. Then I got out of college and hit the boards in New York, and everyone was impressed. Then a few years went by, and I went home...for a wedding, I think. My friend Nick got married, yeah. And everyone asked me how things were going out in LA for the big star, and...ugh.”

He'd turned his face away from me at that last memory. Softly, with my palm, I turned it back. “But that was years ago. And so what if you're not the big celebrity they thought you'd be? How many people really _are_? My senior year I won the class award for English. All my teachers expected me to become some famous novelist, and I've never published a single thing. I'm not even really using my college degree. It doesn't stop me going home.

“Besides,” I added with an encouraging smile, “I'm not asking to go to your high school reunion or even a wedding. I just want to see your mom. Medford is pretty big, right? You won't have to see anyone you don't want to.”

He didn't seem very encouraged. “And what if she's one of the people I'm trying to avoid?”

I was genuinely confused. “Why don't you want to see your mom? I thought you guys got along really well.”

“We do. Kind of.”

“But...?” I prompted when he seemed disinclined to add anything else.

“You may have noticed, but she hasn't come out _here_ , either. Not to meet you, not to see any of my shows, nothing.”

I sighed. “She's probably just waiting for an invitation. From _you_. How long has it been since you actually saw her?”

He avoided my eyes. “Christmas. The year before last.”

“Oh.” That was actually better than I'd expected, but still longer than I thought _I'd_ want to go without seeing _my_ kid. “You know she's welcome here, right? This is your house, too.”

That seemed to irritate him for some reason. “It's not, really, but I know she is.”

“So?” I prompted again. “Is this really just about her not inviting herself to any of your shows?”

Like an angry teenager, he glared at me before answering. “She doesn't know I tried to kill myself, okay?”

I processed that. It wasn't a _complete_ shock; I'd never heard him mention it to her, after all, and I'd seen the way he'd glossed it all over in the email where he first informed her about my existence. But I guess I'd assumed that he'd said something about it as the months had worn on. “She doesn't know _anything_?” I asked in disbelief.

He was still technically on top of me, but he'd sat up some time ago. Now he glanced down at his wrists, looking dejected as he ran his thumb over one of the scars. “How do you tell your mom something like that?”

I made a face and nodded. It wasn't an idea I'd relish, either. All the same... “You can't just avoid your own mom forever. She might not even notice. I mean, she didn't know you were horribly depressive all those years you were in LA, right?”

Dan shut his eyes. “Oh, she knew. She was constantly trying to get me to move home. Why do you think she took an instant liking to you?”

I reached up, took one of his hands, and moved it to my lips. First I kissed his thumb, then the meat of his hand, then the base. Then I kissed the smooth horizontal scar on his wrist. I opened my eyes after I did it, and looked up at him. His eyes were still shut. I moved his hand down to my heart, and placed it there.

“It's okay,” I whispered tenderly, waiting for him to open his eyes. “It's okay. I get it, I wouldn't want to tell my mom, either, but...Dan, look at me.”

After a painful beat of silence, he did. He looked tired. “It really means that much to you, doesn't it,” he observed quietly.

I gave a sad little smile and shrugged. “We can go in the winter. You can wear long sleeves. Or we can not go at all, if you're determined. I just wanted to understand. And I don't want to see you rob yourself of anything.”

He lifted one eyebrow, gave me a dry expression. “And this is really what's been bothering you lately? Not understanding?”

I chose my words carefully. “I...I know it's stupid, okay. But if I don't know why, part of me assumes it's because of us. Because we don't really matter. I know you love us, I _know_ it's crap, but part of me thinks you're too good for me and that you'll inevitably leave me some day when the rest of the world notices it, too. I'm not a jealous woman, but I've seen some of the comments girls post on your videos.

“Mm-hm.” This idea cheered him up slightly—or maybe my insecurities being on display just made him put away his own. “And how many of those girls do you think have _any_ idea what I'm really like?”

“If they knew what you were really like, they'd just want you more.”

Dan shook his head. His hand was still over my heart where I'd set it, and he pushed firmly against my skin now. “ _You_ feel that way. They wouldn't. At least, most of them wouldn't. And I'm not at the point in my life anymore where I'll just take anything halfway attractive that I can get.”

“Are you sure?” Despite my words, I was feeling somewhat reassured now, and ready to get back to where conversation had derailed my plans for the morning. “I mean, you do have a high sex drive.” I smiled coyly.

My change in direction was not lost on him, and he cracked a smile. “Luckily, I'm dating you. So that's alright.”

“Are you saying I need a lot of sex?” I purred, liking how quickly we'd gotten back on track. It had been an emotional little conversation, and I needed some physical contact to feel properly connected and relaxed again.

As usual, we were on pretty much the same page. “I don't know, why I don't pull out some rope and _you_ tell _me_.”

I liked that idea very much. “You're just looking for an excuse to tie me up.”

His lyric baritone became low, rich, hypnotic. “Always.”

My breath was starting to come quickly. Even after a year of making love and inventing new (often filthy) things to try, the prospect of it still got a visceral response from me. “As always, I'm yours to command.”

“No, no. I don't make commands. I make suggestions...that you happen to like.”

“Hm,” I agreed, “you got that right. So what do you suggest I do right now?”

“Right now?”

I nodded.

“Just stay there and shut up for a minute.”

I did just that, and he leaned down to kiss me. He began with a chaste meeting of lips, but then he kissed the edge of my jaw, moved on to my throat, and bit lightly into the skin on my shoulder.

He could have slid into me easily at any point from then on, and he knew it, but he liked taking his time. Or maybe he just liked hearing me beg for it. Probably both...it was both a blessing and a curse.

Mostly a blessing.

I groaned as he brought his hands to the hem of my shirt while returning his mouth to mine. His lips parted this time, tongue brushing against mine before darting back out again, allowing his lips to press into a different part of mine. It was insistent, maybe a little pushy, but absolutely irresistible. My hands blindly found the sides of his face and the back of his neck, trying to keep him close and hold onto that kiss.

When he backed off so that he could quickly remove my shirt, I heard a faint sound of protest and realized belatedly that it had come from me. His hands deftly went behind my back to unhook my bra, and I shook my arms free of it. I watched in eager anticipation as he started to move his hands in, then checked himself. He got up instead, grabbing some tools from the dresser drawer. When he sat back down on the mattress beside me, he gently took my arms and guided them above my head. I crossed my wrists and studied him as he concentrated on pulling a zip tie tight around them. The hard plastic bit into my wrists, leaving me on the verge of trembling. We already had ropes inconspicuously tied to each bed post, and he used the top two to anchor my wrists in place.

As he stood up and walked around the end of the bed to tug my pants and underwear off, I caught sight of a quirky little smile on his face. For a split-second, I grinned back at him, desire momentarily overcome by my joy at seeing him having a good time. Then he tied my left ankle to the left bedpost, and it was all desire, all over. By the time he got done securing my right leg, I was whimpering and trembling from it.

And now I was stuck. I wasn't stretched out in a position that hurt, particularly, but there was very little wiggle room. Dan had gotten very good at this, thanks to semi-regular practice. I tugged at my wrists and arms just to remind myself that there was no give.

He removed his own clothes before climbing back onto the bed, dropping his shirt and boxers onto the floor without ceremony. I liked watching anyway, though—seeing his muscles work as he pulled his shirt off, catching a brief glimpse of how hard he was before he climbed on top of me. He

didn't get close enough for me to _feel_ it, though, not yet. Instead, he ran his hands over my breasts with a touch light enough to drive me crazy. I tried to hold in the sounds of need that I could feel building in my throat, resulting in sounding like I was being choked. It felt like every muscle in my body was tensed. The pressure from his hands strengthened, kneading, squeezing, allowing more of his own desire to seep through. He pinched one of my hard nipples between his thumb and middle finger and rubbed slowly back and forth. My body arched, but the action tugged against the tie on my wrists—and he used his free hand to push me back down, anyway.

An agonized cry made its way past the moans that had been choking my throat, and Dan leaned forward to swallow the sound with a deep, forceful kiss. My hips tipped against him in a silent, physical plea, and now that he'd leaned close enough to kiss I could feel where his erection pressed against me. I moaned again, loudly, but he continued kissing me as though he hadn't noticed. His hands remained on my breasts the entire time, which didn't exactly help me to remain calm. When my sounds had died back down to nothing more than shaky breathing, he moved his lips down to where his hands had been. My back arched upward again, and he slipped his hands under it, taking away the little flexibility I had left. He used his tongue, lips, teeth, and suction on first one side, then the other. Despite the fact that I had no room to move, my toes curled and my body shook through an orgasm that seemed to go on forever.

When he pulled his arms out from behind my back—and when I saw the raw exhilaration and lust written in his eyes and the stillness of his jaw—I was amazed at his self-control. Then I immediately forgot to be amazed because the heat and pressure of his hand manifested itself directly over my crotch. My breath hitched again. I just wanted him now. Not wanted, no, _needed_. I needed that closeness and I needed it to never stop and I ne....oh God his hand was _cupping_ me, creating a new sort of pressure, and my legs were spread so that...oh God please, please...all coherent thought broke down.

He stayed like that, letting his other hand trail along between my breasts and over my stomach in a strange little non-pattern that made my flesh tingle. I felt in that moment as though I couldn't breathe, that passion had taken over every one of my senses. And the most enticing part was knowing, in the back of my mind, that he'd either do it or he wouldn't. It wasn't up to me at all. “What's my name?” he asked, tone deceptively calm and at odds with the look in his eyes.

“Dan,” I panted, hips lifting and falling futilely. “Dan Douglas. I will never forget your name as long as I live.”

“Thank you,” he said, sounding almost detached, and slid his fingers into me.

He had large hands, and long fingers. I was very, very wet. And he twisted and pushed against my insides with deft certainty, zeroing in on the best spot only to retreat and caress a different square inch before coming back to press right on it. The fact that I could do nothing to escape, had no control at all to mitigate the sensations sweeping over me, only elevated my excitement. Every time my body twitched in an effort to get distance from the hurricane forces, hard plastic or rough rope rubbed against my flesh and spent me spinning off in a new direction of pleasure. 

I know I screamed. I made all sorts of very interesting noises, no doubt. My eyes had squeezed themselves tightly shut some time ago, but they popped open in surprise when he abruptly withdrew his hand, moving his damp fingers into the hair at the base of my skull as he slipped his tongue into my mouth. A fraction of a second later, he pushed into me. I broke the kiss to utter a long sigh of relief at finally getting exactly what I needed, and my legs involuntarily tugged against their ropes. My relief was very short-lived; we were both so ready by then that the tension built quickly. I noticed when he stopped himself from finishing once, but that must have been as much as he was able to prolong the experience. A new hurricane of pleasure and excitement grew rapidly between us, a natural disaster we both shared in. When I came, the visual in my mind was a video I'd seen once of a nuclear blast, interspersed with flashes of crashing waterfalls and my boyfriend's face.

And then, slowly, it subsided, and I was staring up at a man with a sharp nose, disheveled black hair, and a pleasantly satisfied expression. I sighed happily. “I love you.”

He planted a tiny kiss on the tip of my nose before dragging himself upward to undo the rope at my wrists. “Love you, too.”

I brought my arms down around his neck while my wrists were still together. My forearms rested comfortably along his shoulders, and I rubbed my nose affectionately against his cheek. “Don't move yet. Just stay like this.”

Dan smiled slightly, and relaxed against me. “You want to snuggle in bondage.”

“Yep. I know, I'm weird.”

“I doubt you'd love me if you weren't. So that's a good thing.”

“I love your gray hairs, too,” I smiled, nuzzling his forehead.

He sighed.

*

It's really amazing how long two very dedicated people can dance around an issue. Weeks passed. Spring rolled around. I discovered another dozen gray hairs on Dan's head. I attended five of the eight performances of _Richard III_ (in which, naturally, he played the titular lead role). Wesley got his gold belt in karate. Xander had a guitar recital. I found some new little scenes to suggest for youtube. Life was generally pleasant and predictable. 

Dan came home in a great deal of excitement one day upon learning that he would be playing “Hickey” Hickman in the local production of _The Iceman Cometh._ Having read that one back in college, I thought this was pretty awesome, even if he was going to portray someone named “Hickey.” (Xander had really been onto something when he mentioned characters in plays getting idiotic nicknames.) He was further delighted because Robert, Neil, Jane, and Matt were all going to be in the production as well. It was a large cast, so that was hardly surprising, but it was always nice to see my boyfriend happy. I told him as much, and he'd picked me up and hugged me. “I'm having so much _fun_ ,” he exclaimed at the time.

But under it all, there was still that slight, vague feeling of unease plaguing us. Was it my imagination, or was it affecting Dan now, too? And if so, was that my fault, or was his irritability coming from within himself? Sometimes—usually when he was elbow-deep in theater stuff—he seemed completely fine and happy. And he was still kind and loving to me and the boys. But there were those moments when I'd be sure he was about to say something to me, something significant, and then he didn't. Maybe he just sensed my own secret concerns about our future, but wasn't sure how to bring it up. But then again, maybe it was something else.

Whatever it was, neither of us brought it up. We discussed things that were bothering us from time to time, sure. We communicated pretty well, overall. But for whatever reason, neither of us wanted to pry deep enough to get at the real underlying issue.

You'd think, with a slow build-up like that, it would have ended in some sort of huge, violent explosion of emotion. But in fact, when it finally happened, it slipped out almost accidentally.

I was sitting at the my laptop, going to various websites to pay our bills. Power, check. Internet, check. Association fees....yep, check. Trash collection…still had to do that one. I was entering my card data into the website when Dan walked past me.

“What are you up to?” he asked as he grabbed his shoes from the front hall and crammed his foot into one of them.

“Just dealing with bills,” I answered absently, typing in the expiration date. “Where are you off to?”

“Checking the mail,” he responded, but then proceeded to just stand there by the door instead of heading out to the mailbox. He stayed there so long it caught my attention, and I turned my head away from the computer to see what he was doing. When he caught me staring at him, he sighed heavily. “I need a job.”

I smiled and shook my head. He'd been saying that for months, yet somehow nothing ever came of it. It reminded me a bit of the pipe dreams that Hickey derided so thoroughly in _Iceman_ , as a matter of fact. “You'll get one tomorrow,” I told him with a little laugh.

Evidently this was a sore spot, because his reaction caught me off guard. “You think it's a fucking joke?” he snapped, and I was taken aback by the way his eyes flashed.

“Of course not,” I said hurriedly. “I know you could get one if you wanted to!”

He folded his arms, and his lip twitched. “So you think I don't want to, is that it?”  
“No!” Worried and puzzled, I stood up and walked over to him. His body language was clearly telegraphing _don't touch me_ but I did anyway. “I just meant...well, maybe...you just have different things to focus on, and that's okay.”

He continued to radiate anger, and lifted his eyebrows haughtily at me. “So you're telling me you're fine with just supporting me forever, while I piss around with community theater and youtube videos. That is _sad_. That is _fucking_ sad _._ ”

I winced at the venom, even though I knew it was really directed more at himself than me. “I hadn't thought about it, really.” Which seemed laughable, now that I said it out loud, but I _didn't_ think about it that much. We'd gotten into our routine, and I loved routine a lot more than I loved money.

Dan seemed to sink in on himself. He leaned back into the nearby wall, and put his hand over his face. “You're serious.”

“Of course I'm serious. I know we're not rich, but I have money.”

“From your husband.”

“From Marty, yes,” I said evenly. “You don't have to say it like that.”

“And you don't think he'd have a problem with you spending his money on your loser boyfriend.”

I sighed. “You're not a loser. And no, I don't. Not as long as I was happy and the kids had everything they need.”

“Oh, grow up,” he snorted, turning away from me. “Live in the real world.”

“What's that supposed to mean? I'm fine on money. I like our life. I guess someday we'll have to revisit the issue, but right now I'm happy just being with you.”

He still wouldn't meet my eyes. “So you don't care that I've never given you anything.”

“Except orgasms?” I tried at a joke, but he didn't even smile. “Of course I don't!”

“Well, I _do_ ,” he exclaimed, hands balling up into fists. “And you _should_. _You_ asked me out. _You_ saved me from myself. _You_ invited me to live out here, and have never asked anything in return. You've been supporting me for a year. A _year_!” He shook his head angrily. “I need a _job_. It's my turn to give something back.”

Like an idiot, I got caught up in his emotions, and blurted out the first thing that popped into my head: “But then you wouldn't be able to do theater anymore!”

Quick as a flash, the anger abandoned him again. He met my gaze, and he looked worn. Tired. Older than 37. “Exactly.”

Immediately, I tried to backpedal. “Well, not necessarily, okay? You could find a job in an office or something instead. A _day_ job. A normal job. Then you'd still be free on nights and weekends.”

“A day job.” He repeated the words with heavy sarcasm. “What office, exactly, do you think is going to hire me? What white-collar—or blue-collar, for that matter!—skills do you think I have?”

I wrapped my arms around his chest, and tipped my face up so he could see my eyes. “Come on now, you're a genius actor and sex god, would it really be fair to give you any other talents without making you an asshole?”

He did smile at that, but it wasn't his real smile. It wasn't even his best acting smile, which was believable, but a cheap imitation. “Even if I _got_ some low-paying job as an office drone, where does that leave us? Practically the only time I get you alone is during the normal workday. If I get a job to support you, I'll never _see_ you.”

He sounded so sad. I squeezed him tightly. “Which is why I haven't been very bothered about you getting one. I like this.”

“So do I. But I can't keep mooching off you—or,” he forestalled my objection, “whatever you want to call it. I can't, honey. It's eating me up. Every time I watch you pay a bill, the guilt hits me. Every time your dad looks at me, I feel like he's thinking every day I'm with you is a week off your retirement, or food out of your kids' mouths.”

“My dad likes you!”

“Maybe. But he still thinks it.”

“Stop projecting.”

“Fine. _I_ think it. You can tell me you love me and I'm talented all day long, but at the end of the day you're wasting yourself on a guy who couldn't cut it in Hollywood and can't be bothered to make anything of himself anywhere else.”

I could feel tears building behind my eyes, lurking at the back of my throat. “ _No_ , pumpkin,” I told him firmly, standing on tiptoe in a futile effort to kiss his cheek. “I can never see you like that. That's not who you are, at all.”

He lethargically put his arms around my waist, as if he was just doing it because he'd realized I wasn't moving. And he rested his forehead on the top of my skull in a pose of surrender. “I don't know what to do,” he whispered.

“Oh, Dan,” I whispered back. I could understand what he was feeling, and I hurt for him. Because I didn't know what else to say, I started thinking out loud. “I don't, either. I know it's not easy. I'm glad you told me, because if it's bothering you then I'd rather know. And I can see that it _has_ been bothering you.” I reached up, running my hand tenderly over his head, brushing his hair away from his forehead. “It's sweet that you care. And I'll support whatever you decide, you know that, right? But these...”

I sighed, mostly in commiseration. “These are the hard choices, aren't they? If earning money is that important to you, you either have to give up the bulk of your private time with me, or give up theater....” I stopped, realizing what I was saying. “And that's not a hard choice, is it. It's not even a choice.”

The look in his eyes couldn't have been worse if I'd slapped him. “It _should_ be.”

“But it's not,” I supplied, nodding. “That's okay.” I moved my hands to his back again, hugging him hard. “I wouldn't _want_ you to quit theater. Not for some crappy job, and especially not for me. In fact, I won't hear of it. You can get a day job.”

“But then I won't see you,” he objected feebly.

I shook my head. “Of course you will. Look, lots of people do it. Me and Marty did it. There are still weekends, and the time after the kids are in bed or when they're watching a movie. It's not ideal, okay, but neither is having you feel like you don't contribute at all. If it's important to you, I'm behind you. You know that.”

His face was still pressed into the top of my head, but he nodded and tightened his grip on my waist. “I don't deserve you.”

“See now, that's where you're wrong. You will never, in a million years, convince me of _that_.”

*

After that talk, things were substantially better. He didn't get a job immediately, of course, because life isn't quite that magical and convenient, but I saw him actively spending a lot of time hunting again. And he seemed better for it. He wasn't _happy_ about this job prospect, but I could tell that the idea of really doing it gave him more self-confidence.

My mind continued to work on the subject, because I couldn't shake the feeling that there _must_ be some perfect solution that was eluding us. Some job he was made for. Helping in a college theater department really would be a perfect fit, but it would definitely require night and weekend work, without giving him any real roles of his own as a consolation prize. He'd be bored as hell in retail work, but he was at least qualified—but again, no guarantee of weekends or evenings free. An office job would be harder to come by, and I had no idea how good he was at sales, but it still seemed like our best bet. When he didn't find anything promising in the want ads, I suggested he ask his friends if they had any connections he could use.

“Nothing,” he said dejectedly after an afternoon of texting. “Neil's sister runs a Tim Hortons, he says if they're hiring she might take me, but—”

“It's _perfect_ ,” I shrieked delightedly, spinning around in my seat.

Dan blinked at me slowly. “You're joking?”

“No, I'm serious, of course I'm serious! Why didn't I think of it before?”

Extremely dubious would be a kind way of describing the way he was looking at me. “Because 'Tim Hortons barista' is a job for a college girl, not a grown man?”

“Wow, way to sound like an asshole,” I grinned. He could act as superior as he wanted, I was excited about this prospect and would sell him on it. “Come on. I _love_ T-Hos. Think of all the discount coffee you could get me. All the mocha ice capps.”

He almost smiled at that. “I'm not degrading myself so you can get free iced coffee.”

“No, you'd be degrading yourself because making money and contributing to the household is super important to you,” I countered. “If I get free coffee out of it, that's just a bonus.”

Smiling wryly, he shook his head. “Okay but again, _Tim Hortons barista_. That is _not_ a career. That's an embarrassment.”

“Who _cares,_ ” I exclaimed, walking over and taking his hands in mine. “You're not your job. You're an actor. With this, you could make some money, have evenings free for rehearsals, and still be home before school gets out some days.”

He shifted his hands so that mine were in his, instead of the other way around, and continued shaking his head in refusal. “Twenty hours a week selling coffee will not support a family. That's barely enough to pay my share of utilities.”

“Utilities _and_ groceries.” I disagreed playfully, and planted a kiss on him. “How is it any more demeaning than your last job?”

That gave him pause. “It's not, I guess,” he admitted. “But it's not engagement ring money, either.”

The earth screeched to a halt. I felt my mouth hanging open and shut it, but then I found myself simply staring at him. “An engagement ring,” I repeated, at length.

“Yes,” he said, sounding defeated, and let his eyes skate away from me.

“An engagement ring,” I repeated to myself, softly enough I doubt he even heard it. And then I started to laugh—at first, barely more than smiling and shaking my head, but the whole thing suddenly seemed so ridiculous that the laughter grew inside me and bubbled over.

Dan folded his arms defiantly over his chest and stared at me. “Want to explain the joke?”

Oh jeez, he didn't understand. I'd hurt his feelings. I covered my face with my hands briefly, and got the giggles back under control. “A ring,” I said one last time, this time for his benefit. He nodded. “Is _that_ what you've been waiting for?” I shook my head without giving him a chance to answer. “Good grief, I'll marry you right now at the county courthouse. You think I give a fuck about a _ring_?”

He looked a bit chagrined. “Not...not the ring, really, no. But it's what it represents. It's traditionally three months' wages, right? And marriage isn't just love, it's supposed to be security, too.”

I sat down on his lap sideways, turning at the waist to put my hands up around his neck. “I don't care what it's supposed to cost. I don't care what it's supposed to represent. All that matters to me is that you wanted me to have one. You actually want to marry me.”

“Of course I do!” He seemed startled. “You didn't know that?”

“ _No_ , you idiot!” I exclaimed, starting to laugh again. “Why didn't you _say_ anything? The fact that you wouldn't even mention it has been eating me up!”

“Well, I wanted it to be a surprise!”

He sounded so defensive! I snorted in laughter. “Congratulations. It was.”

I could see him start to smile, before his own insecurities rose up and pulled him away. “So you're saying you'd marry me even though I have nothing?”

I rested my head on his shoulder. Everything was going to be alright. Oh, thank God. “You _don't_ have nothing,” I told him firmly. “You have my heart. That's everything.” He started to say something, probably an objection, and I tipped my face upward. “You don't have money, okay, but I don't _care_ about money. What _I_ care about is having you here every day, knowing you're stuck with me even if Quentin Tarantino walks into our living room and begs you to take the lead role in his next movie. I mean, I'd want you to take the role. But I'd want even more to know that you were going to come back.”

“You already _do_ know that,” he scolded me lightly. “Or at least, you should.”

I didn't say anything, just smiled stupidly up at him until he leaned in and kissed me. I melted into that moment.

And then a light bulb went on above my head. I jumped back to my feet and grabbed his hand. “Come on, let's go apply for a license and get wedding bands. Do you even own a suit?” I was already heading for the door. “Never mind, we can buy one. I should probably get a dress, too, don't you think?”

“Sharon!” He dug his feet into the carpet. “You're not even listening to me!”

“Like hell I'm not,” I retorted jubilantly. “You said you wanted to marry me.”

He gave my hand a hard tug, hauling me back into his arms. I giggled. He held me there firmly by my shoulders, and stared down at me as if I was an errant child. “You are doing this all wrong.”

I beamed at him. “If you wanted to go down on one knee and see me start crying in front of a bunch of people, you shouldn't have made me wait so long.”

“We've only been dating a year, honey bunny.”

I wriggled against his hands, wanting to get closer. “We've been _living_ together for a year. And if you had mentioned it, even in the abstract, you know, a possibility on the horizon, I might be acting a little more reasonable right now.” He relaxed his grip, and I moved close enough to plant a kiss on his neck. “However, I suppose we can sit down and discuss this like adults. Would that make you feel better?”

“Yeah.” He smiled at me, definitely relieved, and sank back down into the sofa.

I sat down primly next to him with my hands on my crossed knees, trying to contain myself instead of running around screaming. I looked over at Dan, running my eyes over every line of his face, and thought _I'm going to marry you_. “So. In your mind, how do we go about this?”

He leaned back into the corner of the sofa, arranging himself in a good thinking position. I said fuck it to sitting like a lady, and sprawled myself out over his chest, instead. It was very comfortable. “I already told you, though I guess I blew the element of surprise. I start working and eventually earn enough to buy a little diamond ring on top of helping you pay utilities for a change. Then you hopefully say yes, we pick a date in the next year or two, and—”

“Year or two?” I bit back on a laugh. “And I already told you, screw the ring, screw the element of surprise.” I put my hand along his chin, turning his face fully toward me. “Yes.” I smiled. “There, I've said it. That part is already settled. Now we hash out the details.”

“You are insanely stubborn.”

“Hush. Any objection to discuss this immediately will be construed as hesitation to spend the rest of your life with me.”

My lips were twisted in a smirk, but it faded when he draped one hand over my back and smoothed my hair with the other. “You're cute when you're excited. But stop planning and let me enjoy this for a minute. I think I just got engaged.”

I nestled my head in the crook of his neck, kissed his chest, and sighed happily. “You did. How does it feel?”

He continued smoothing my hair, which had a wonderfully calming effect. “Daunting.” I felt his lips against the top of my head. “But good.”

“Good?” My face stretched in a smile, I craned my face around so I could see him again. “Just _good,_ from the man who seduced me with quotes from _Streetcar_?”

He shrugged. “I'm only human.” 

“Yeah,” I mused, “none of the great lines are really about everyone living happily ever after, are they?”

“Some of them are,” Dan pointed out. “But I can't remember the wording, and anyway I'm pretty sure what you want right now is _my_ feelings.”

I snuggled against him happily. “That's exactly what I want. Now and always.” I kissed his chest again. “But you are really fun to tease.”

“Stop,” he muttered, and this time I could hear laughter in his voice. “You know I'll gag you.”

“When you gag me, I can't scream your name,” I objected.

“Doesn't mean it's not fun sometimes.”

“Oh, are we getting frisky now?”

“We _did_ just get engaged. I said I wanted to enjoy the moment.”

“Hm.” I rolled my hips against him experimentally, and got a response. “That's a lot longer than a moment you're talking about.”

He pulled me up so my face was right on level with his. “How about a lifetime, then?”

I nodded, and if we'd been in a screenplay the next line would have been _fade to black_.

*

There never _was_ an engagement ring, and I couldn't have cared less. I got a ceremony. I got a name change. I got a cheap little gold band that quietly but firmly told the world I belonged to Dan Douglas, who just happened to have one that confirmed he belonged to me.

All that came later, though, after the last batch of performances for _Iceman_. First, he got the job at Tim Hortons—and despite a lot of bitching about what a failure he was, the first few weeks didn't seem to kill his spirit. The fact that rehearsals for _Iceman_ had started probably helped a lot in that regard. And it might not be any more prestigious than his last job, but it did allow him more down time while on the job. In general, instead of returning home emotionally drained after an eight-hour shift, he'd complain about his feet hurting and about rude customers, and then sit down to read a book, review a script, or write down some screenplay ideas he'd had.

That had been his idea, born after his first week on the job: between my writing skills and his theater experience, we should be able to collaborate and come up with an idea for a decent film. I was terrified by the idea, for the same reason I'd never tried to get my books published—if anyone _was_ interested in the product, they'd demand changes and tear my baby apart. But Dan was so taken with the idea, and spoke so convincingly about the concept and plot he had, that he got me on board. He had solid ideas, and he was far kinder than I expected when he read through the sample bits of dialogue I threw together. I'd expected him to be defensive of his intellectual property, but instead he was eager to share in its creation with me. We might never mix DNA to conceive a real child—the jury was still out on how much we wanted it, and my ovaries weren't getting any younger—but we were certainly able to work together in the creation of a story.

At first, our story-children piled on top of each other, sometimes only loosely connected into a general plot (which borrowed a bit from Measure for Measure, a bit from the French Revolution, was mostly original, and had no title as of yet). But we were enjoying the process, and as time passed it started to become not just coherent, but _good_.

That was how we adjusted to his new schedule, really. We _did_ see less of each other during the day; sometimes he had to leave the house before I was even up, and sometimes he didn't get home until I was out picking up the boys. It was manageable, and we still found the occasional early afternoon to fit in some noisy, earth-shattering activities, but it _was_ an adjustment. On the days he had to get up early after a late rehearsal the night before, I worried about his lack of sleep, and when I got home from dropping the boys off at school or camp I missed his presence around the house.

But once we started work on “The Script,” a new rhythm found us. We'd talk over ideas for it while we were both home in the afternoons, or on the evenings when his scenes weren't the ones being rehearsed. After dropping the boys off, I'd come home and write some of those ideas into a scene (or scenes) that I could present to him later. Sometimes we even talked about casting, or funding, the completed product on our own. The internet made that an almost plausible dream. It probably wouldn't catapult us to fame, which was just as well because the idea of moving to LA horrified me, but it could succeed on a small level.

What was more important than its potential success, though, was that Dan believed in it. He had dreams again. Not just a dream of being with a woman he loved, which had been enough for a while, and not just happiness at being back in theater or satisfaction at contributing financially to the household. We were talking about the future. Discussing things that we might or might not want. Making plans. He believed in _himself_ , and here was the big miracle—that made him want to be with me more, not less.

Somehow, in the midst of work and kids and rehearsals and screenwriting, we managed to throw a wedding together. The guest list was small, but it had the notable inclusion of Audrey and her husband Derek. They arrived a week before the wedding, giving them time to attend the last performance of _Iceman_ before getting to know the family while being shown the glories of Michigan in July. Derek was loud, brash, and cuddly—like a Santa Claus who enjoyed potty humor, and not remotely what I expected. The boys instantly adored him, which gave Audrey time to truly catch up with her son. She also got to see the way he interacted with my children, and I could tell how much pride she took in seeing his affectionate, paternal behavior toward them. Xan and Wesley started calling them Gramma Audrey and Grandpa Derek several days before the wedding, which seemed to please Dan almost as much as it did his mother.

We did the ceremony inside our home, despite the fact that even our short guest list filled it to bursting. In addition to Audrey, Derek, and the boys, we had my parents, my sister and her husband, Robert and Kathy, Matt and his wife Mindy, Neil, and Jane. We'd also sent invitations to my friend Alexa and to Dan's friend Kevin, both of whom were out west and couldn't make it, but they were touched to be invited.

I didn't wear white, but I did buy a summery, full-length dress that showed a healthy amount of cleavage. I combed my hair about a thousand times, and wore it in a loose stream of chestnut and white down my back. Dan had a charcoal gray suit with a tie the same shade of green as my dress, but the only thing I had eyes for was the smile he was wearing. Nothing had ever looked better on him.

We were all headed out to a restaurant for dinner to celebrate afterward, but once the obligatory photographs were taken Dan and I managed to sneak away for five minutes so that we could privately leak tears of happiness while he combed his fingers through my hair and I caressed his cheek with wonder.

Dinner was a loud, happy affair, with the spotlight bouncing back and forth between the sweet young men—Xander was twelve now, I couldn't keep calling my children _little boys_ anymore—and the noisy theater crowd. Xander and Neil seemed to take equal pleasure in tapping their forks against their wine glasses, but despite all my blushing I was secretly delighted every time they did it. Whenever we weren't eating, Dan and I held hands under the table.

Eventually our guests left, Audrey and Derek went to a hotel for the night, and my parents whisked the boys away back to their house. Dan drove us back home in his little beige Camry, and as soon as we were inside he did an excellent reenactment of our first date by slamming me against the hallway wall and kissing me until my knees gave out. We only had the one night before we had to return to our regularly scheduled program, so we ignored all the chairs and decorations left over from the ceremony and went upstairs to make good use of the time.

“You think we should have taken a real honeymoon?” I asked dreamily in the wee hours of the morning, when we were winding down after our second time.

“Why?” he asked, sounding just as sleepy and content as I felt. “So we could spend all day secluded in a hotel room, doing exactly what we just did?”

I smiled into his chest. “So that we could have more than one day of doing it. Or maybe, sure, leave the hotel room and go see some sights. Why not.”

“We'd have to travel to get somewhere with sights. And I know how you feel about flying.”

“Mmhm, true.” I yawned. “Sights are overrated, anyhow. The only thing I'm really interested in seeing is you. Preferably naked.”

“An extra day or two might have been nice,” he conceded. “But I'd feel bad leaving Xander and Wesley for much longer.”

I traced little waves along his chest with my fingers. “You're a family man now, Dan. How does it feel?”

He tightened his arm around me, and I felt his lips press into the top of my head. “It feels right.”

I nudged him playfully. “That's all you got, Shakespeare?” 

A barely-audible laugh rumbled in his chest. “I'm not Shakespeare, though. I'm a skipper.”

Smiling again, I shook my head. “You are so, _so_ much more. Than either of them.”

“I know,” Dan agreed, stroking my hair absently. “But right now, you asked me how I felt, and it popped into my head—the backside of water. Right now, I could talk about the backside of water being the most amazing fucking thing ever. And I'm happy enough that I'd mean it.”

“Now _that_ is a good answer,” I told my husband, and kissed him.


End file.
